Incompetent
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Arthur has a deal for Ciel and his Butler. And they agree, if they receive what they want.
1. Agreement

**So Be It**

The sinner lounged in his compartment, his slender vessel in the world without quite seeing the rest of the world. No one realized that he was there, for he walked and talked like any average man would. No one noticed the darkness overfilling his wretched heart or the pin on his lapel that signified carrion.

No one, that is, but an ethereal butler waiting at his young master's every whim. He noticed even before the man rapped upon his door.

"Get it," the young master, Ciel, ordered.

"Yes, my lord." The butler bowed curtly and went to the front. When his crimson eyes landed on the shorter man's green ones, he smiled wolfishly. "What brings you here?"

"I have been vanquished from my position and I do require assistance from none other than the black crow himself." The man said. His name was Arthur.

"Do you need anything from my young master?" The butler, who called himself Sebastian, replied. His gloved hand lingered by the door. The bleak London skies hung overhead like a disease, dripping into even Arthur's bright eyes.

"No, I do not." Arthur stepped in without being asked to. He did not further his intrusion by pulling off his gloves. "At any moment I will have to change my age to thirty-five, and at that point I will have to pay my dues. But I am here on account of a business you two will soon muddle yourself with."

Sebastian shut the door behind him, watching Arthur slowly turn back to him.

"It is on an account of some murderer. He is not your average killer, mind you. But you need not muck around with him. I have already sent him to the gates of hell where he will remain. If you choose to investigate the cause you will find yourself running in circles without end. So stick out of it and let the police dogs dizzy themselves with it."

"And why, pray tell, do you tell me this?" Sebastian said suspiciously. He noted Ciel lurking in the halls, watching the conversation take place, convinced that he was out of sight. Sebastian met his eyes and the boy nodded, turning away and making as though to leave.

"Long ago I made a pact with one of your kind, right before he realized that I have no soul to give to him. I wish to find this one again. If it so pleases you."

"What would I get in return?"

"Whatever you see fit as equal," Arthur raised his hand and closed his fist tight. "I have every life in this city on the tip of my fingers. I could sneeze and kill half of the population at my will. I have the ability to fulfill any needs you have."

Sebastian looked back to the halls, where Ciel stood. His thin hands were at his sides and his engraved eye exposed.

"I order you to do it, Sebastian." He declared.

"Yes, my lord." Sebastian smiled, turning towards Arthur. "Can I at least have a name?"

"Dante," Arthur said and parted without another word, collecting an optimistic air and walking with a bounce in his step, fooling all who looked on.

"Dante…" Sebastian said glumly. "So be it."

* * *

_I claim no ownership over Black Butler nor Hetalia. If I was to continue, I would only claim ownership over the character I set forth. _


	2. Fate

The opportunist, many months prior to Arthur's visit to the Phantomhive manor, waited at his desk. He bent over his work, his translucent eyelashes batting away tears from his drowsy eyes. "Zadig," he whispered, looking up towards the butler that waited on him.

Standing like a grandfather clock, the man turned towards his master. "Yes, my lord?"

"See if my father's awake, please…" the young man said. He hardly looked older than sixteen, his body frail and weak. Heavy circles lined his dark eyes and his straw-like hair fell into them often, hiding them from sight even more. His name was Ven. His last name meant little to him.

Zadig, the plain-faced butler, nodded and left to fulfill his orders. The house they lived in was less of a house and more of a room cut into four pieces. The floor boards groaned with age and wariness. Stains dirtied the carpets and walls. A clock ticked away in the corner.

His gloved hand pushed open the door and caught sight of the man Ven called his father. The smudged, greasy man lay on his desk, snoring loudly over a bundle of papers, his pencil in hand. Zadig carefully shut the door and soundlessly reappeared to Ven.

"Do you care to go out, young master?" Zadig offered, his green eyes on Ven.

Ven stood and peered through the yellowed windows. Snow fluttered down like ashes, stained black by the pavement.

"Do you think he'll wake up in the meanwhile…? Of course, I can go around that, can't I?" He mumbled nervously, turning back towards Zadig's unmoving figure. Ven looked at his bare feet, and the star was on his ankle, small and nearly unnoticeable. "I order you to make it so. I can't be late for his check-ups."

Zadig nodded and picked up Ven's fur coat, dressing him in it comfortably. The two left the dark home and entered a world of pearly white purity. Children raced through the snow, creating foot prints behind them and hollering at each other to hurry up, lest they forget the focus of the game.

The two trekked through the networks of London, enjoying the various people and the air that seemed crisp and fresh in comparison to the dingy atmosphere of his home.

"Isn't that the Phantomhive child?" Ven said suddenly, eyeing the younger boy across the street, accompanied by his own butler.

Sebastian stayed behind Ciel, watching the transaction take place. They were conversing with a jolly sort of fellow, with a red nose and pockets lined with precious gold. Ciel neared a smile, but everyone knew he could not do it.

The man must have been offering an unreasonably excellent deal, concerning some sort of transaction between the two of goods for good money.

"He reminds me of Saint Nicolas." Ven said.

"He's one of the richest men alive. He's good with where he puts his money and has never lost a bet once. It's no wonder he would be so jolly." Zadig explained. "He lives in his own sort of world, where food is plentiful and torture does not exist. Those poorer than him are but bugs to be squished and eaten."

"Now, hold on… I do believe I've seen him before, or at least heard his voice." The two edged nearer, hearing the crackling, mismatched voice of the tradesman.

"That's right, young master. He's a patient of your father's. You always seem to be asleep when he comes around." Zadig allowed himself a small smirk. "I have listened in, in case any information that would be useful to us would be said."

"It's not right to pry…" Ven looked at his feet sadly, his sorrowful eyes occasionally flicking over to the man.

They continued to walk for another minute or so before deciding it was high time to turn back. Ven felt anxious about leaving so close to his appointment but told himself to trust his butler. Sure enough, Zadig stayed true to his word and led him back on the dot. Ven brushed the snow out of his hair and hung up his coat, becoming quite warmed up by the time his father called him into his small office.

"Sit down," he said.

So Ven did, on the covered bed. He placed his hands on his knees and bowed his head. His father did not know of Zadig's existence.

"How have you been lately, Venice?" His father addressed him by his full name.

"I've been quite content, father."

"What have I told you about addressing me like that?"

"I apologize, Doctor Lock." Ven looked up, trying to look at the spectacled, aged face.

Lock nodded and wrote a note on his clipboard.

"How have your dreams been?" He asked, pinching at the ends of his mustache.

"They've been simple for the past few days," Ven answered truthfully. Lying with his father never went well. He may never have gone to a proper school, but he could learn.

"What have you been seeing?"

"The same thing, usually," Ven searched his memory for any acute details, and found only one. "I don't remember much, but I do recall seeing a rat. A black one with bright red eyes, to be exact."

Lock's expression hardened, becoming concerned. The silence was filled with the clock's incessant ticking and the scratching of his pen on parchment. Ven took his time to examine the contents of the room. He already knew it so well: the dent below the desk, the stain in the corner, the clean desk with only an unnoticeable mess in its corners, and especially the faded wardrobe in the corner. Sitting atop it was a picture of a beautiful woman. Her head was in the shape of an oval, featuring soft lips and softer eyes. Ven admired the beauty of his mother.

"Before you fall asleep," Doctor Lock called Ven's attention back, "do you experience any sudden bouts of grief or fear?"

"Sometimes, but less frequently than before, Doctor."

"And tell me, boy, do you ever wish for bloodshed?"

Ven felt his heart climb to his throat. His father had never asked that question before and it disturbed him for reasons yet unknown. From the locked parts of his psyche, he dug up a very timid, shy answer; "Why would I? Bloodshed only begets more and only leaves a dreadful stain."

Doctor Lock rose to his feet and set the paper away. He moved over besides Ven and pulled him into a side embrace. "My son," their appointment was over, "You must know how very proud of you I am. Now, you go along, but remember your condition and remain wary of all. I could not let my little fawn run into trouble. Your mother would not have liked that." He let go of Ven, who stood up and smiled.

"I will, Father." He inclined his head and left without rush, no need to arouse further suspicions.

Once back in the comfort of his room, Ven climbed atop his raggedy bed and curled up in the coarse covers, allowing his bare and cold feet warmth.

Zadig stood by him, watching him for any order.

"Zadig?"

The butler asked what the matter was.

"Sometimes I fear that I will never leave these walls. And, the part that truly frightens me, is that I don't want to. I'm quite at home with father and my books. He was a good teacher and he's a doctor to. I need never leave the ends of these streets…"

"What are your reasons for confessing this, my young master?"

"I just have a feeling that things will change very soon." He lowered his head onto the pillow, and though it was still not evening, he felt sleepy. He felt as though he was on a steep cliff, ready to fall over into sleep and never wake up and climb out. He hadn't told his father this because he knew the man had already noticed.


	3. Commerce

The pessimist sat at his desk. Behind him the white skies, hinting snow, glowed with unearthly light. He bent over a list of trades and stocks and finally found a note. The maroon stamp had a picture of a horse's head. Ciel didn't think much of it.

"Sebastian, what is this?" He said, picking up the envelope and shaking it. From the sound it appeared to hardly contain more than a single leaf of paper.

"I believe it is an invitation to trade with a Mr. D. Rockwell. I know little about him. Would you like me to find some information on him?" Sebastian replied.

"No, I don't believe that would be necessary." Ciel said and cut the envelope open with a thick blade. He read the contents through with growing pleasure in his eyes. "This is a fine deal… Yes, I shall meet up with him at once. He says to come over near the bakery. I bet the man can hardly stay away from food."

Sebastian collected his master's coat and dressed him in it, clothing himself in his own inky trench coat.

"What exactly does the man have up for trade?" Sebastian said as the two went down the stairs and towards the main entrance.

"He says he would pay me double for a certain collection of items."

"And how do you know it is not a scam?"

"That is not up to me to know. That is up to you."

Sebastian nodded.

Once in town they at once found the jolly man with a reddened nose and a ruddy appearance waiting by the golden warmth of a bakery. He smiled at them and greeted them with equal mirth. "Why, I am so happy you have taken me up on my offer!" He huffed. The thick mustache on his face needed a full beard to go along with it, Ciel couldn't help but notice. He said nothing about it. A single slip of tongue and this deal could slip right out of his hands. His plans for revenge didn't overpower the need of maintaining a manor when they were dormant in his mind.

"Now, you see, I have a very acute idea of what I want from your fine company." Rockwell said, tucking his hands into his coat pockets. Neither party was aware of the passing young man watching them closely. That young man spoke with his butler named Zadig in a mousy voice that no one but the butler heard. "Would you like to come in for a brief—"

"No, that won't be necessary, sir," Sebastian interrupted, "We can make do out here."

Rockwell paused, then nodded, huffing, "Why, yes, of course, man of trade like to be hasty… Now, I want a very special kind of toy, in the shape of a young woman."

"You mean a doll, don't you, Mr. Rockwell?" Ciel said, adjusting his sleeves.

"Of course, yes, yes, now, I want these girls—dolls, I mean, to be hollow on the inside. If you could do that I would be most pleased… And then I would like an opening into the vacant, china insides to be on her back. My eyes are not perverse, mind you." He chuckled heartily, "I will pay you any price you want, nothing is too absurd. I assure you I am well-to-do in this matter."

Ciel mulled it over. "Now, sir, why exactly did you ask us in particular? There are many toy companies out there who would be more than happy to fulfill your orders."

"Ah, yes, but any other company would ask the exact same question." Rockwell replied steadily, "I chose you at near random. I did have to look into your products before making this offer. So, boy—I mean sir, pardon me-do you agree?"

Ciel consulted Sebastian, who said that he found no particular harm in it.

"We shall do it, then." Ciel said, holding his hand to shake. Rockwell's heavy paws engulfed Ciel in an eager shake.

"Good! Oh, marvelous!"

When he let go, beaming at the two, Ciel spoke up again, trying to regain order of his disorientation.

"Now, may we ask what you plan to do with them?"

"I want to make some for my grandchildren, of course. And I have very many, for I consider those tiny friends of theirs my own, too. The place in the back is to put small items in! You know, sweets, smaller toys, the likes! They will consider me their favorite uncle afterwards."

"I'm glad to hear that. Come by to the Phantomhive manor to collect your order, then." Ciel said and turned away, his heels clicking on the snow-covered pavement. Sebastian bade Rockwell farewell and went to catch up with Ciel.

"Do you really believe that nonsense?"

"It is not my choice what he does with them, no matter how crude."

"Then why did you invite him over to collect the items? You could have done better to package it and ship it off to him, much less work for him."

"I am no fool, Sebastian," Ciel said, not turning to look at his butler, "That is exactly why I am calling him over."

"Yes, my lord."

* * *

_Here's a bonus for tonight, since the previous chapter hardly showed our protagonists._


	4. Marigold

In the late winter, when harsh winds bit at passer-bys and icicles started to melt, Arthur received the most curious message at his door step. His home was small, but elegant and gothic in its texture and designs, stationed just outside of London in the more rural areas of the country. Inevitably, a man with such power could only have a home to match it.

The message came in the form of a letter, stamped, and sealed tightly. Arthur adjusted his trench coat around himself, he had planned to head out just as the letter arrived.

"Curious…" he muttered, feeling the soft insides. He ripped the packaging open, noting that it was addressed to "Arthur (England) Kirkland".

There was no note or written words, but the message came through quite clearly. In his palm, the soft, golden flower with blood-red insides, fluttered in the wind.

Grunting, Arthur tucked it in his pocket and locked the door behind him. Freshly laden snow crunched under his boots. The smell was fresh and cool, turning the tip of Arthur's nose red.

In several minutes he reached a coach and took that for roughly half an hour to his destination. A meeting between the nations was set to take place, but Arthur's mind couldn't have been farther from it. He took the flower from his pocket and rubbed the soft petals.

"Is that a flower for some sweetheart of yours?" The cabby piped up, his round face turning briefly to eye the flower in Arthur's hands.

"Oh, no, goodness no, I wouldn't wish to send this sort of message to any sweetheart of mine." He chuckled, exposing his faintly yellowed teeth. Returning the flower to its place in his pocket, he looked out the window, watching the world flit by.

"I haven't the faintest idea who could have sent me this. Do you know?" Arthur said tensely, holding the flower out to the Frenchman. They had never been on decent terms, but in this case Arthur was willing to go to any lengths to solve the mystery at hand.

Francis gingerly examined the petals with a sullen expression.

"A marigold? Why would someone want to send you a message of 'cruelty'?" He asked.

"That's exactly what I'm asking you."

Francis started walking to the meeting room, still trying to decipher the message. His blonde hair was tied back with a black ribbon. Everyone in the room seemed to wear black. Alfred's suite was black, for a change.

Arthur sat down in his seat by Francis and the well-dressed Feliciano, who seemed to be the only one not infatuated with a need to dress in the morose color. His white suit, studded with gems and pastel-pink flowers was a sight for sore eyes.

The meeting passed without much success. Arthur and Francis murmured under the din of the other's debating.

"Did it have a return address?" Francis asked, returning the flower.

"Yes, but it was only a number and a street, without a city or country for that matter." Arthur whispered back.

Francis's wore a purple dress-shirt and dark pants. Arthur couldn't help but notice that. Kiku Honda seemed to as well, his pale lips smiling. For him, the color meant something entirely different than what it meant for Arthur. For him it was the color of soil and earth: life-giving. For Arthur it was of plague and death. He felt uneasy.

"Do you think someone's out to get you?" Francis brought Arthur's attention back.

"Why would someone want to kill me? Have I done something—perhaps I have done many things for people to want to slice off my head. Do you think it's someone here?" Arthur gazed around the room. No dark expressions or ominous glances were chanced his way. It seemed highly unlikely.

"Hear me out, Arthur, but I think that it's not one of us, nor is it a human."

"Oh?" Arthur felt his heart skip a beat.

"I remember you used to have that old butler around. How you got rid of him, I don't know, but could it be him?" Francis referred to Arthur's own personal demon, who he named Dante, of all names.

Arthur thought back to the quiet and obedient man and his promise to him.

"No," Arthur said slowly, "No, not at all. I think he could help, but I have no way of reaching him. Although he is still tied to me by an oath, he cannot come at my every whim because of obvious reasons, namely that I lack a soul edible to them."

Francis nodded. The information was no new news to him. In times of peace Arthur was usually amiable with the Frenchman. He liked those days more than any other.

The meeting was called to a halt by Alfred, who was still young and impressionable, but still worthy of being listened to at some point. He left first with his young brother. The others, mumbling and muttering amongst themselves, left shortly after until Arthur was left alone. Francis had business to do, or so he said.

Eventually Arthur was ushered out by a dusty old man who had a meeting to conduct with professors of the nearby college. He tipped his hat but hastily told Arthur to get out.

Pulling on his trench coat—black—Arthur went down the clean steps and into the frigid outdoor air. First, Arthur would find out who was behind the charade, and then he would find an old friend and tell him to uncover Dante from his hiding spot. The last event would happen in a month's time.


	5. Fool

Listen: After Rockwell made the deal with the Phantomhives, he immediately turned, not home, but to his therapist. Lock was the cheapest doctor in the entire block. His work was not poor or lacking, he simply enjoyed his job and took care of people from the goodness of his heart. However, that was not the case either. His other motives were hidden under lock and key.

Rockwell heavily clambered up the stairs and entered the small apartment, rapping lightly. Lock opened the door. When he did, Rockwell thought he saw a distinctly black shape moving behind him, like a shadow. It went away too quickly for Rockwell to decipher the shape exactly.

"Is your son home?" Rockwell asked in a hushed voice.

"Yes, but he is asleep." Lock answered back in a similar whisper.

"Does that boy of yours ever wake up?" Rockwell huffed in sustained laughter. Every time he dropped by the boy always seemed to have fallen asleep. He simply assumed the boy was too ill to remain awake for very long. Lock confirmed that to be the truth when questioned.

The doctor and his patient walked to the office. Rockwell slumped down on the bed, causing it to groan and squeak. Lock took his seat and grabbed his papers, watching expectantly.

"You've come earlier than you normally do, Rockwell, why is this?" Lock said.

Rockwell leaned forwards. "I have tied the deal with Ciel Phantomhive."

Lock dropped his doctor act and set the papers away, leaning forwards. Excitement lingered in his eyes.

"You have?"

Rockwell replied in the affirmative.

"Excellent, excellent…"

"You know," Rockwell wrung his fat fingers together, "It feels wrong to swindle such a young man."

"He's only a child!"

"Exactly why I feel that way."

"But you do it all the time."

"But this boy had the oddest butler at his side, looming like a shadow with bright, ruddy eyes. I feared for my life when I made contact with that unholy being!"

"You forget who we're working with, Damian Rockwell." Lock furrowed his patchy brows.

"I fear I'll drive myself mad…" Rockwell shook his head in distress, but did not move from his spot.

"Need I remind you that you are perfectly safe with me?" Lock smiled wolfishly.

"Your wife wasn't, need I remind _you_?"

Lock stood and Rockwell realized at once that he had treaded into dangerous territory.

"She was incompetent. She could hardly care for herself let alone another human being. It was only best of her to perish in mercy rather than raise a child who she would end up forgetting easily." Lock turned away.

At the door, fragile and pale, walked in Ven. He rubbed his eyes, trying to wipe away the sleep from them.

Lock moved over, concerned.

"My boy, what has gotten into you? You need sleepy," he said compassionately, pressing his hands to Ven's shoulders.

Ven covered his yawn with bony fingers. "I'm sorry, father, but I wanted a drink of tea. My stomach's unsettled."

Lock smiled warmly and led his son into their kitchen, which saddled alongside the pitifully unused living room. He set the kettle.

"I can handle it from here, father." Ven said in his mousy voice.

"Of course, yes…" Lock rubbed his son's shoulder and went back to his office, signaling for Rockwell to leave.

"Well," the man huffed, shaking Lock's hand vigorously, "I'm pleased to have had this chat with you, old boy, I certainly seem to be in a better condition."

"Farewell, come back whenever you need to." Lock replied. Once Rockwell left, he turned back to his office and shut the door.

Ven poured himself the green liquid and scurried back to his room, holding the steaming cup to his chest to warm himself up in the act.

Zadig waited patiently for him.

"Why did you not ask me to bring you tea, young master?" He asked.

Ven took a sip from the hot tea and seated himself at the corner of his bed.

"I wanted to see if I could listen in."

Zadig raised his eyebrows. "Pardon me, but wasn't it you who told me distinctly not to pry?"

"I know, and I am a hypocrite in my words and morals, but I had that dream again."

"Only fools chase their dreams."

Ven examined the seal on his ankle, not touching it. "Then call me a fool. But the dream was ever so compelling and realistic. I saw wolves and hounds and horses, all galloping after something, or someone, I couldn't make it out. But they kept running and running! What sort of place do you think would require such a rush from all those beasts, Zadig?"

"Something very important, I would assume. Are you sure they were running towards something? Were they not running from something?"

Ven stared pensively into his reflection in the tea.

"No, Zadig, I don't think so. They were not afraid, but rather determined." Ven looked up quite suddenly. "I forgot. There was also a crow."

Zadig did not respond until Ven had finished his tea. He took the empty cup back to the kitchen and returned to find Ven already asleep.

Ven had very little weight to him, weighing about as much as a large bird. His butler picked him up and set him down neatly, covering him with the scratchy bed spread.

"So, Sebastian…" Zadig said, watching his young master sleep soundly. "I fear we'll meet again, and very soon at that."


	6. Seal

The optimist returned home from the meeting, shedding his trench coat and shoes. His living room remained as is: gloomy as though ill. A stray chair sat in the middle, as though in its own realm of existence. By a noble fireplace was planted a reading couch, stiff by leisurely. Arthur kept his plethora of books in another room, lest they catch an ember and burn the house to ashes. Another couch longed against a wall, for visitors, though he rarely received them.

He trudged into the bathroom, his footsteps heavy. The mirror, cracked at the left side, greeted him. Arthur leaned over and picked at his lower eyelid, pulling it down. There, on the red flesh, was his seal. It remained somewhere where no one would ever bother to look. If a doctor were to take a gander he would be perplexed by it, and say not a word for fear the others would think he had lost his mind.

Listen: Years upon years ago, at the dawn of the so-called Dark Ages, Arthur enlisted in the help from down below. He was desperate and sick. People were unsanitary and darkness filled all minds, depriving them of enlightenment and beautiful knowledge that could pull them from there.

Arthur couldn't risk it, and his mind was already on the fritz from various plagues sent over by foreign men. So he fell asleep one night after trying to seek hellish help from within himself, and was greeted by a gleaming creature, small and beady-eyed.

"…If you accept, the gates of paradise will forever be out of your reach…" it whispered in a cackling, crude voice. Arthur tried to squirm but his body was locked into position, sharp bindings taping his bony arms to either side of him. The feel of his parchment-like skin on his weak bones brought alive a will to bring that man forth.

So he accepted the contract, varying slightly from the others that were said and would be said. The seal came into his eyelid and he broke away from the dream, into a light, airy place.

Stepping forwards was a sleek man in a very well-to-do suite. His straight back and sleek hair held a dignity to what little personality he had.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Arthur said, squinting at the ethereal light.

"You have entitled your soul to me, how can you not?" The demon raised a glove hand to his chest, continuing to stare at Arthur unwaveringly.

"Very well," Arthur replied, "Then do you have a name?"

"I have whatever name you choose to give me, master."

Arthur noticed the white streak of hair going from the man's temple to the back of his head and decided to keep it in mind, along with the high cheek bones and the eyes that looked as though they could never be detached from reality.

"A name… I shall call you Dante." He declared.

Dante bowed low, a strand of white hair slipping and falling into his face. It dangled before him, like a leaf ready to fall. He tucked it back smoothly, returning to his standing position.

"I need your help, Dante," Arthur pressed his finger to his eyelid. By the stem of the eyelashes, he pulled it down and exposed the red-hot seal. "That was an order."

"Your wish is my command." Dante raised his other hand, where the scar-like seal of his own was.

So these events unfolded again in Arthur's memory as he washed his face and dressed in a night gown. The meeting had eaten up most of the daylight and left the trimmings of it to read by. Arthur did so, on his reading couch, leaning against his chin.

A fuzzy layer of a beard presented itself on his fingertips.

He would visit the barbershop, he decided. He should be at least somewhat presentable before Dante, wherever he may be.


	7. Doctor

So Rockwell arrived at the Phantomhive manor promptly on time. He took great care to examine the exterior décor, from the various sculptures to the Gothic palette. He stepped out of the cabby, paying his fare and tipping his hat at him, and gathered his strength to come before Ciel.

A cool wind buffeted through the trees, rustling their leaves. The sound appeared to Rockwell like rattling chains, only unsettling him further. Stones lined the pavement to the grand front doors. The windows at each door peered into the world like sightless eyes, clouded and faintly showing the silhouette of Ciel standing in wait.

Rockwell knocked on the door, keeping a hand which held a handkerchief tightly at his jacket-lapel, as though it was slowly choking him.

The door opened much more quickly than he would have liked. Before him was the pale, crimson-eyed butler Rockwell feared so.

"H-Hello," Rockwell stammered, then cleared his throat. "Hello, I am here to collect my goods from Ciel." His hand travelled from his lapel to his coat pocket, lingering there.

"Come in," Sebastian said, noticing each breath and movement than man before him made. "Ciel will be here shortly. Would you like some tea, sir?"

Rockwell looked around the interior, which was quite unlike the outside, all fogged up with the misty weather. Lavish furniture lined the walls, and a painting stood at the top of the stairs, hidden half by shadow so that it was undistinguishable.

"No," Rockwell said, "I'm afraid I am short on time. Although I do not want to seem hasty…"

"Certainly, sir. I will collect your order." Sebastian turned in left. At his exit, hardly a moment after, Ciel walked in. His tight blue suit stood out against the maroon walls. A flower was pinned to his breast pocket. He approached Rockwell stiffly.

"Hello, boy," Rockwell leered.

Ciel refused to answer.

"Well, it is a pleasure certainly to see you again." He prattled on until Sebastian returned, with a hefty box. He handed it to Rockwell he struggled under the weight. "Oh, thank you, the money will be sent to you before the sun sets."

That was what Rockwell wanted to say, but the box slipped out of his hands and Sebastian loomed over him, holding the box daintily in a single hand.

"Rockwell, I know you do not simple wish to don these presents upon your relatives. I know latent motives when I catch sight of them. So tell me, what is it that you want?"

Rockwell started to pull a sleek metal handle from his pocket, which trembled in his grasp.

"Don't try anything you'd regret," Ciel almost sneered, "I'll have you know that my butler is much more than capable."

Sebastian did, however, sneer. Rockwell bit his lip, his cheeks enflamed pink and his eyes wide.

"Mr. Phantomhive, my good boy, whatever do you mean by-"

Sebastian threw him against the wall, pinning him by his throat with a stern hand. The box lay peacefully in another corner of the room.

"I will tell, please, don't kill me!" He blubbered, shutting his eyes. "I am doing this for an old friend of his. I don't know what he wants with me, I don't know what he wants at all to do with these dolls! He asked for an order. I have the money and I owe him my life, so who am I to refuse? I swear it's the truth!" Rockwell poked a stubby finger at his heart and made a cross over it.

Ciel gave Sebastian a sidelong glance.

Sebastian dropped a blustering Rockwell and collected the box, returning it to Rockwell.

Rockwell took it, pulling a slip of paper from his pocket. "Take the money now, then." Ciel snatched the bank note away and hid it in his pocket, looking upwards at Rockwell from his height.

Rockwell chuckled uneasily, stepping back towards the door. "Now, it is my turn to warn you not to do anything you may regret. My friend is also very capable. I'm sure your butler here can do much harm, but something tells me that he will be no match to him."

"Tell us all you know and we'll let you go without another word." Sebastian wagered.

The offer wavered before Rockwell's gullible eyes, loitering in one part of his mind before drifting to the next. As he chewed it, the two owners of the house stared at him. Somewhere the other workers were possibly breaking a plate of fine china. Rockwell's life started to feel threatened and he decided that he would tell the two. Besides, what harm could they do?

If only he knew.

"My good gentlemen, my friend is a doctor of the finest quality. He may lack in strength, but his mind is the most powerful of all that I have ever come across. He's a doctor, you see, a doctor of the mind—a therapist, if you will. But he's mighty powerful. He plays tricks on your mind. One minute you could be a healthy young man and the next you'll be in the loony bin claiming to be a chicken raised by a pack of wolves." Rockwell said.

"And…" he hesitated, not knowing where to look. "And he has some sort of hellish help, something not of this world."

"Does it take the shape of a man?" Sebastian asked.

"I can't say that I truly know. He only speaks of it, he only makes these threats and I feel it. I can feel him using his power, using his mad abilities to make me believe. He may not have it at all. He may have tricked me into believing it. But something tells me that it's true, something tells me that he really does have that help. How else would he be able to do such things?"

"Is that all you know?" Ciel said, tapping his fingers on the wall. He had walked back over to the hall, watching Rockwell speak from there. Sebastian had, too, retreated back by several steps.

"He has a son, too. Several years older, in fact, and he's very ill, but no fool—mind you. Perhaps you should consult with him. But I warn you, he sleeps any time I go over so you should time yourself well."

"Very well, go." Ciel turned away and went to his office.

Sebastian called a cabby and led Rockwell to the door.

Just as Rockwell turned away, he bent his head and said:

"Tell him that I am no stranger to his games."

Rockwell, chilled to the bone, nodded and left quickly, his coat tails trailing behind him. Sebastian did not smile, but rather he frowned and shut the door, contemplating his next course of action.


	8. Infernal

The pessimist thought over the events and wanted to attack instantly. He wanted to secure the son and question him until he coughed up all the answers he needed. However, Sebastian laid a calm hand on the small shoulder and advised against it.

Ciel, never having seen a single spot of fear on Sebastian's eyes before, acquiesced.

"Very well," he said, "Then what are we supposed to do?"

This he said several hours later while conversing with Lao. The man sat in a green silk outfit, with his darling woman on his lap staring nonchalantly across at Ciel, who had no idea where else to turn.

"Has it ever come to your thoughts that perhaps you cannot solve all mysteries?" Lao expostulated, running his hand down his female partner's back. A thin layer of smoke crowded around him, a thin stick burned in his hands, emitted the smoke as well as a pleasant perfume.

Ciel planted himself across from Lao on a less comfortable divan, his fingers tapping against its stiff arm. "But this directly involves me."

"They paid you, did they not? So what's it to you what some old pervert wants with those silly dolls."

"I'm not against him buying them. I'm just worried that his 'clever' doctor would use them for some malign business," Ciel said, looking towards Sebastian for support.

Sebastian made no comment.

"Why don't you receive some help? Or, better yet, pray for some to come and wait patiently for it to arrive." Lao continued.

"You know I don't do such things."

"What else will you do? Risk losing your butler?"

Ciel quieted at once and agreed to "twiddle his thumbs until a miracle falls from the sky".

And a miracle did. The arrival of Arthur Kirkland was a shining star in the darkest of nights.

Now that we have become caught up with the story and I have revealed the events that fell in order to knock over this one in their domino arrangement, I believe the story may fully begin now.

Ciel ordered Sebastian to find this elusive Dante and bring him over at once to converse with Arthur Kirkland. Wants he does so and Dante is able to complete whatever action he needed to, Ciel will instruct Arthur to help him find this doctor's son and then the case would be solved and done for, Ciel could return home in time for afternoon tea and a peaceful evening.

Sitting in the living room and watching the dusty grandfather tick-tock the minutes away, Ciel felt distinctly naked without Sebastian. He felt fragile and exposed to the world, though he knew he was not. It felt like taking off a piece of jewelry after wearing it for several weeks straight—unnatural, to say the least.

His left leg hung over the couch, barley scraping the floor. The other housekeepers rustled various objects and whispered to one another.

That was not the only source of activity. Inside Ciel's head a booming distemper had awoken. Becoming ill of will and health, Ciel refused to eat anything or even look at water. He rested his arm across his forehead, he shut his eyes and attempted to block out the bruit inside his head.

After a sickly nap without any dreams—except for a constant image of beady eyes staring at him—Ciel woke to find Sebastian above him, paler than usual.

"Hello, young master. You look unwell."

"I have this dreadful headache, that's all." Ciel muttered, rubbing his temples. His eye patch was nowhere to be seen. "Have you fetched that Dante?"

Sebastian nodded. "Yes, he is here speaking with Arthur. You were asleep when I came in so I called Arthur to come over, allowing you more rest, my lord."

Ciel rose, sitting up. "So is Dante a demon as well?"

"Yes. He belongs to someone else, now, but he is still entitled to aid Arthur in whatever he needs, since Arthur had done some sort of pact with him."

"Then why couldn't he have called him on his own? Why did he need your help?"

"That's part of the deal—Dante will agree to whatever Arthur needs, but he must first be found because their connection is weak and useless unless Arthur directly orders him to do his bidding."

"I see…" Ciel lowered his head.

"I shall bring you something to help your headache, my lord." Sebastian said, already turning away. Ciel remained silent. He considered it to be an average head cold, caught from being outside so often and having such a stress placed upon him.

If only he knew.


	9. Deliverance

The opportunist woke from his afternoon sleep to find Zadig far out of reach. He swung his legs over the bed and rose slowly, looking around as though expecting Zadig to be a rat hidden in the many crevices of the room.

"Zadig…?" He called softly, and froze when the door opened.

He turned slowly, clutching his shirt in apprehension. His father stood at the door, wary from a long day's work. His frail mustache even looked down. Ven neared him, raising his bony, chilled hand and placing it on his father's warm one. "What seems to be the matter, father?" he asked softly.

"It's time for your medication," his father replied in a harried tone, pulling a vial and spoon from his pocket. He uncorked the vial and held out the spoon, allowing the red liquid to pour into it. Once the proper dosage had been calculated, he held it towards Ven who pulled it into his mouth and drank it quickly. The bitter liquid slid down his throat and burned his gullet, giving him a sleepy, cracked sensation. Lock led him to his bed and let him lay down, petting the boy's head and brushing away his hair. "There's a good boy," he said.

Ven closed his eyes, overcome by sleep.

When he woke, approximately two hours later, he discovered Zadig bowing over him, his smile unwavering.

"Where have you been?" Ven asked, looking past him and out the window. Inky night spread its wings through the skies, dotted with stars and a crescent moon tilted to resemble a crooked smile. "It's so late..."

"I was here all along," Zadig responded smoothly, not giving any insinuation that this was not at all the case. "You do remember that your father came in to give you your medicine. I was hidden, so as not to be seen. You should have slept through the entire night, my lord. I apologize for waking you at such an untimely hour."

"That's all right," Ven smiled, still lying down. He curled his toes and pulled his feet closer to him.

"What did you dream of, my lord?" Zadig said, stepping away so as to not loom over his fragile master.

"I dreamt of very little, except for a crow mocking me, claiming to pull the life from my lips and plunge them into the bowels of hell, letting them rot there." Ven said, growing bitterer with each word, "He cackled a most dreadful laugh before flying away, a rat in his grasp."

Zadig hardly batted an eye, but he felt his stomach—or what could be called that—lurch within him.

"Also," Ven continued, tapping his fingers against his sternum, "I also saw a horse galloping in the distance. It was very surreal, but also very real… Does that make sense, Zadig?" Ven turned his head to look at his butler, who waited at the window, looking down into the murmuring streets below. Various beggars and impoverished children scoured the night for some form of consolation, some sort of mercy, turning towards the skies and hoping for something to come and give them what they have waited for their entire lives. Ven often looked down, too, and he would have risen at that moment to join Zadig. But his legs were too stiff and his heart felt heavy, as though a weight had been placed against his chest. He could hardly pinpoint a reason why.

"You should be proud of your father, Ven," Zadig said in a gentle tone, dropping formality briefly. Ven noticed, but didn't mind. "He has worked hard for you to live between four walls and to have a hot meal served to you daily."

"I know." Ven uttered reproachfully, "I never said that I disliked him. He tends to my needs, however sickly I may be…"

"You will be having guests, tomorrow," Zadig announced quite suddenly. "Your guests will be very detrimental to you, most of all, and so try not to fall asleep when they come."

"You know sleep steals me away at its own whim, Zadig, I never choose when to slumber. It chooses."

An uneasy silence fell between them, toxic. Ven felt more awake than he ever had. His eyes wide in their dark rings, he tried to start a conversation: "I never understood what you were, Zadig."

"Do you not remember?"

Ven recalled receiving him. He was troubled, for some reason or other, and had escaped from home. The reasons were indecipherable and vague in his mind. He had fallen and hit his head, bawling wildly, despite being fourteen years old.

In a moment he was swept away in a chilled mist, like Aphrodite snatching Paris from the duel, and he found himself face to face with a rat. A deal was made and the seal was burned to his ankle.

The rat took the shape of a human, a butler to be exact.

"What's your name?" Ven asked, sapped of all strength and energy.

"That is for you to choose."

"…How about the fated one: Zadig."

"Very well, Venice."

Ven turned, now, towards Zadig, nodding.

"I am simply 'one hell of a butler' as a counterpart of mine likes to say." Zadig smiled.

The moonlight caught in the single streak of white hair, trailing from his temple to his nape.


	10. Poison

Arthur returned home, feeling heavy and apprehended. He stepped away from the Phantomhive manor, feeling Dante not far behind with his order still fresh in his ears. The order was for him to discover the sender behind the marigolds and to bring him forth to Arthur immediately.

However, Dante's expression twitched when the order was placed upon him. Arthur noticed. Nonetheless Dante bowed his head and agreed to carry it out for his master whom he had been bound to with more than just an oath. Arthur stopped in his tracks, looking at the muted colors of the grass at his feet.

Something told him, some little voice in his mind, that he should turn back and talk things through with Sebastian and Ciel. He had forgotten his agreement, at any rate. He stepped behind a tree and squatted at its hefty trunk, peering around and watching for Dante to exit.

Dante did so, wearing a trench coat and a grim expression. His eyes were blank, insinuating an inner debate toiling inside his brain. In moments the man had strode the entire length of the grounds and exited out of sight. Relaxing, Arthur stood and went quickly back to the mansion, cursing Ciel for having forgotten to tell him what to do. Though, Sebastian had hinted that the boy was feeling distempered.

At the steps he stopped, seeing something distinct on the ground before the doors. A drop of liquid had fallen, glistening faintly in what little sun shone through. He crouched before it and ran his gloved forefinger along the substance, finding that it had only half-way dried. Its scent was acidic and gave Arthur an instantaneous spinning head ache. He shook his hand to dislodge what remained of it. His face paling, he leaned against the wall, trying to soothe his sudden onslaught of pain.

It faded away, slowly but surely, and disintegrated into nothing but a throbbing memory. Arthur knocked on the door twice—for on the third knock it was pulled open by Sebastian who looked anxious to see Arthur, surprising the poor man.

"There's something there that has given me a damned headache." Arthur said, pointing towards the faint trace of the substance still on the ground.

"I know," Sebastian gestured for Arthur to come in. "I don't see how I didn't see it, but it has given my master a deathly color."

Arthur entered and hung up his coat. "May I see to him?"

"Yes," Sebastian led him towards where Ciel had retired, relaxing visibly. He had little emotions to begin with, and what he did have told him to feel endangered by the strange material. Not only this, but Dante's appearance had unsettled him, however little it could to his rock-hard persona.

In the living room, Ciel lay with his head raised on a mound of pillows. He had not the energy to raise himself from that position and go to his room for a more proper location. He refused that Sebastian carry him, at all costs. A half-filled cup of tea sat at a table near him. Dark rings circled his eyes and his chapped lips were parted. Annoyance still lingered, however.

"Hello, Master Phantomhive," Arthur said.

"Hello, Mr. Kirkland," Ciel replied, scowling. His voice was hoarse.

"Bly me, you've been struck silly by that ridiculous poison," Arthur said, pulling off his gloves and placing his fingertips on Ciel's forehead. "You're burning up!"

"Poison…?" Ciel muttered, his eyes widening.

"Yes, some bloke must have wanted to off you and not seem victim. By doing that he had to slip you some poison that would make you very ill and so all blame would be directed to nature and not him. If only he had fully capped whatever container he had, it would not have fallen onto your front porch. Now, we better find you an antidote and quick." Arthur said, half to himself.

Ciel tried to rise but Sebastian placed his hand on the bony shoulder.

"Who would poison me?" He asked.

"I haven't the faintest… Who was here in the past month or so? This couldn't have happened over night and it had to have come in close contact with you. I stood right over it and I didn't feel a thing until I put my nose right up against it." Arthur sat on the ottoman across from Ciel, furrowing his brows.

"No one but you, that other demon, and Rockwell."

"Rockwell…?" Arthur said, the name ring a dim bell somewhere in the back of his mind.

"Yes. Show him the letter, Sebastian." Ciel ordered.

Sebastian left the two briefly, returning with a torn envelope. Arthur examined it, tracing his hand over the stamp. "Curious…"

"Why would Rockwell want to murder me? He was a blubbering idiot. Albeit, that could have been an act to catch us off guard… But why? We gave him what he wanted and he would have no use in killing us, unless he feared we would meddle with his line of work and that oh so precious doctor of his." Ciel rubbed the ring at his fingers and looked at Arthur. "What do you think?"

"I think that we should investigate the matter," Arthur said, "This is the same envelope that sent me those flowers."

Ciel turned to Sebastian, nostrils flared. "This is an order, Sebastian, let us find that boy and get every piece of information out of him."

"Yes, my lord."


	11. Abundance

"Wake up, my lord."

Venice slowly opened his eyes, blinking away the dregs of artificially induced sleep. "Is he here?" He asked, raising himself on trembling hands. Over the past days his dosage increased but he still grew weaker and weaker.

To the door a heavy, yet sophisticated knocking was placed, ringing out through the cramped home. Zadig left to open the door, giving Venice time to dress properly. Venice had little clothing that suited the situation and settled with a white blouse and clean trousers. He placed a smile upon his lips and held his head high, conscious of his gloomy eyes and sullen brows. This was the first time he had received guests. His father stumbled out of his office, staring grimly at the door. He noticed Zadig and Zadig did not seem to mind being seen. Venice thought this was peculiar and wondered if Zadig was invisible to his father.

The three guests entered, all in frock coats and especially pale. The tall butler behind his dark-haired master gave Zadig an askance look. Arthur looked directly at the butler and greeted him stiffly, coldly even. The boy, however, did not appear to give much thought either way. He kept his eyes forwards, looking vaguely at Venice.

Venice knew sickness intimately and recognized all the signs at once. He saw Ciel's trembling lips and the tremor in his hands, still trying to remain still to prove his power over the other.

"Hello," Venice said, approaching them. "I'm Venice Lock." He held out his hand. Ciel reached for it.

From behind, Lock, who had seemed to have molded with the scenery, burst through and cut off the two. "Wh-who might you all be?" he said.

"I am Ciel Phantomhive of the exact company, this is my butler, and an accomplice of ours, if that is the right word." The boy announced, his uncovered eye glaring at the doctor. "We would like to have a word with your son."

Aside, Arthur muttered; "We chose a dreadful time. Is there a moment when the father is not home?"

"What could you possibly want with such a fragile, weak boy?" Lock said aghast, pulling his son to him. Venice staggered back, looking to Zadig for help.

Zadig made no move, however, and continued to stare off to the side. His eyes gleamed as though caught up in a storm of inner turmoil.

"Dear Lock, my dear man, you poor, wretched soul. Your heart must quiver in your throat whenever you approach that delicate photo perched atop your armoire." Arthur began, striding forwards. Lock appeared to have been shocked into silence. "I know all of your secrets, Theodore Henry Lock. I know not what name you now go by, but that was the name your impoverished mother gave you shorter before her untimely death, leaving you thus to a father incapable of tending even to a plant."

"How do you-?!" Lock blustered, stepping back and letting go of Venice's shoulder—which he had been pinching tightly. Venice rubbed the afflicted shoulder.

Even Ciel and Sebastian seemed surprised by the abundant knowledge Arthur had of a man they were certain he had never seen before. Sebastian did not change his expression but focused more intently.

"I am not quite finished yet, Lock. I know of the time your father denied you the right to go to school. By that time he had drunk himself silly, so much so that you feared his veins had turned to liquor and his heart to the pure pleasure he aroused only when slinging some instrument of harm across your back. I believe you still have scars running all along it. And even when you had finally met someone who brought you great joy and made you smile warmly, it lasted for hardly more than the blooming time of a cherry blossom. She donned you this son, and so you—"

Lock cut Arthur short, jostling them into the living room. He looked positively sick with emotions, from bewilderment to the anger of having his privacy invaded so thoroughly. He gently pushed Venice into the room. "Yes!" He cried, "Go talk to him what you must, but say not a word more. Hector, bring my tea." He ordered, turning into his room.

"Hector…?" Ven said, seating himself weakly on the couch, covered in a shaggy throw-rug. Ciel sat heavily across from him, sided by Sebastian. Arthur sat in between them all, gritting his teeth and bowing so his rumpled blonde hair fell into his eyes.

Zadig nodded, "yes, my lord," and turned away to the kitchen to do so.

Arthur looked up, sneering. "You've whored yourself out, Dante!"

"Dante?" Venice repeated to himself in a mousy voice.

"I have not, Arthur," Dante, or Zadig, or as known now: Hector, replied. "I have only one duty in my deathless life, and that is to collect my meals. But now I have an order to fulfill, master." He said and set to brewing tea.

Arthur scoffed incredulously. "How asinine. He'll wear himself thin like this, trying to go under goodness knows how many masters."

"What I'd like to know," Ciel rounded on him, panting slightly in the exertion, "Is how you knew all of this about that man."

"You are not here to interrogate me, Phantomhive, I will explain in due time. But for now please direct your attention to our primary focus of the afternoon: young master Venice Lock."

Venice looked towards Ciel, smiling politely. "What did you wish to ask me?"

Ciel took shallow breathes, frowning painfully at the effort it sapped him to formulate the questions in his mind. His vision swayed out of focus. "Who are you, first off… And… how… how did you find your butler?"

"You're so terribly weak," Venice said, rising and holding out a hand. "Do you need to lie down?"

"No," Ciel batted the hand away, "I need for you to answer so I may return home and rest…" He swallowed dryly.

"I… Well, if that is what you want," Ven sat back down, looking dreadfully worried. "You see, I don't know how I acquired such a useful butler. All I remember is falling down after running away, before this I remember little of my past, and then an agreement, and then seeing the man obey my every whim and way."

Arthur looked on, ready to put in his input. Sebastian stopped him, looking on politely and asking in the most amiable voice; "Now, Kirkland, you knew all these facts about his father and yet you bring my ill master over here to do what you could do with half the effort?"

"No, it's not quite as simple as that. I need to see the person before I can read their past. Do you know what sort of blooming headache it would cause me to have all these lives in the entire history of England in my head? I need some space for other things as well." Arthur replied, hardly skipping a beat.

Sebastian looked away without responding.

"Then… explain…" Ciel bent down. Sebastian crowded over him, placing his hands on his master's back and trying to held him relax. Ciel felt as through a serpent had coiled itself around his lungs, constricting them with horrid glee. "Explain what this… saintly boy… has to do… with… us…"

"He has absolutely nothing to do with us," Arthur said. "Why, he's hardly even sick."


	12. Chaos

A tense and uncomfortable silence passed between them. The scratching of pen on parchment and the clattering of a tea cup were heard in great clarity. Ciel's jagged breathing as well was amplified. Arthur's wet his lips, still tasting the interjection he had spoken. It had surprised him as well.

"What do you mean I'm not sick?" Venice asked at length, looking group member to group member. He felt crowded by sullen and dark eyes. Arthur's sparkling green ones had lost their shine as well, leaving little comfort. For Venice his whole world, built only within the walls of that apartment, was crumbling. His expedition outside of the home on those rare occasions now seemed like distant dreams. Ciel looked far weaker than he felt.

Sebastian relinquished his hold on Ciel when the boy had regained enough strength to sit up straighter, pulling on a shaky grin. "What do you mean, Venice? How sick are you? How long have you been sick? Think, now…"

Venice scrunched up his shoulders and stared at the tattered rugs beneath his feet. A look of contemplation contorted his face.

"Well, several years ago I ran out of the house for reasons that I don't remember, and when I came home I felt unwell… But it wasn't until a few days later that my sickness had been announced."

"And…You are older than me," Ciel said, understanding all at once. The gears shifted into place, burning up quickly. "So you couldn't have been young enough to have a faulty memory. Your recollections must have been altered!"

"No!" Venice said passionately, standing. "No, I remember my childhood! I remember living in here!"

"Name a specific memory," Arthur said.

Ven opened his mouth, ready to relay a race with a friend or some glimmering, healthy moment before his sickness. No words came.

"Exactly," Arthur grinned.

Ciel clutched the ring on his finger, rubbing its smooth ornament. "So you have been tricked. Something must have happened that forced you, a genteel figure, running out of the house fast enough to cause you to trip." Ciel took a breath, "something so bad that whoever caused it was forced to chase after you and to give you that butler."

"You're suggesting then that someone ordered Dante to create a contract with Venice?" Arthur turned towards the kitchen, where the butler stood at hand, his eyes forwards and his lips pale. "Bly me… Come here, you damned butler."

Dante obliged, walking forwards smoothly. Venice appeared in shackles. He held his head in his hands and sat down heavily, placing his elbows on his knees. He closed his eyes, trying to consume the knowledge without choking to his bitter death.

"Now, this is an order from your most powerful and most capable master." Arthur said, curling his lip and glowering in disgust. "I want you to tell me your motives with this boy and I want you to tell us exactly what happened on that fateful day he happened to bind himself to you."

"Yes, my lord," Dante responded, hesitantly.

"Wait!" Ven interrupted hysterically, "I order you not to! I don't want to know! Can't I go back to living like normal?"

"Y-yes my lord," Dante, or Zadig, said, writhing.

"Listen to _me_ you buffoon," Arthur snarled back, rising furiously, "Phantomhive here is sick and he might die right here in this very spot. I haven't the faintest idea what this would do to you back at your homeland, for loosing such a precious soul, but I'm certain it will be terribly brutal. Notwithstanding, I will be less cruel, so tell us! I don't care what your motives are!"

"Why do you even want to know?" Venice shot back, his lips trembling. This was a major breach of respect for an elder. He was crossing a fine line and he felt pain ricocheting through ever corner of his body, damaging the parts it afflicted like burns. "I say no!"

Dante grabbed his head, his body trembling. His gaze wavered from one master to another. What happened to him was exactly like a machine going haywire. When one possible conclusion was reached, it was counterfeited with another and back and forth it went incessantly. Dante, or Zadig, was incompetent for the job.

Sebastian, who outranked him in skill, watched in pity. Meanwhile, the two argued. With every piece of foul language and harsh tones Arthur said, for he was prone to doing such things when riled up, Ven recoiled back. Ven was not used to arguing and thought that this was the worst possible moment to draw back.

Simultaneously, two doors sprung open. At the front door was Rockwell, portly and ruddy with exertion. At the other was Lock, screaming more orders at the butler.

"Hector! I command you to stop at once!" He pulled down his shirt over his elbow, revealing the seal to be hidden there. For most it would have been a dreadful spot, but for him it was just fine. No one had seen his shoulder bare since his wife last took off his shirt, begging to wash it off.

"What in the—?" Rockwell said, shutting the door behind him. His eyes landed on the trembling Phantomhive who stopped paying attention and honed in on keeping consciousness. "What are you two doing here? I told you Lock has powers greater than you can imagine!"

"But you seem to have overlooked that while Hector is a brilliant servant, I am one hell of a butler." Sebastian said and a hush fell over all of them. His red eyes stared at Rockwell and moved towards Lock, finally landing on the broken, twitching figure of the other butler. "When I attacked you, Rockwell, you pulled a vial from your pocket, making as though to drive out the gun there. You dabbed your finger in its contents and touched the wall. The contents were poison." He neared Rockwell, driving the man against a wall with watery, fearful eyes. "Poison cannot hurt me so you placed too much. My master is now dying a painful death because you wanted to protect your line of business."

"You're mad!" Rockwell gasped, resuming his position of being pinned against the wall as he had a month or so back.

"No, but you two are." Sebastian looked at Arthur and Venice, both breathless. Ciel fainted and dropped to the floor like a ragdoll. Sebastian collected him quickly and leaned him against the couch, feeling the clammy and cold hands with little to no pulse at his fingertips.

"I discontinue my order, Dante," Arthur said.

Dante twitched again, but regained some of his color.

"And I mine," Venice muttered.

"I join in with that motion." Lock said, watching Sebastian. All eyes pinned on him, waiting for an answer, a solution to the dilemma. Lock wanted Sebastian to leave him and Rockwell's business alone. Ciel wanted to live. Venice wanted to curl up on his bed and weep for all the lost years with drug-induced sickness. Arthur did not know what to want.

"Now, what I want you all to do: find an antidote for my master." Sebastian said.

A din of noise came up, all claiming to have the rights to a solution first. Lock wanted them out, not giving two cents whether or not Ciel died. Rockwell wanted to be freed. Arthur argued against them.

"You selfish swine! Don't you realize a little boy is dying at your selfishness?" He said, writhing with injustice.

Venice went over to Ciel, touching his cold shoulders, sometimes overcome with waves of heat. "Perhaps…" he muttered, examining Ciel's condition, "Perhaps some of my medicine would do." He stood and rushed to his father's room. He dug through the drawers, feeling drowsy again. Missing his afternoon nap sapped him of strength. Raising his hands felt like raising anvils. Empty doll eyes with hollowed backs piled up in a corner, their dresses torn in various areas to expose the backs.

Venice found a vial with his name written across it, along with a spoon. Ready to bring it back to Ciel and listening to the endless arguments, he paused by the dolls. Their empty sockets in the back were lined with gooey red material, dripping down the sides and accumulating on the floor.

So absorbed in the grotesque display, he did not notice the sudden silence and the thudding of feet towards him. Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him, turning the boy around to face him. The vial slipped from his hand in shock. The spoon clinked against it and clattered. The vial shattered, spraying the ground with the antidote. Ven bent to pick the shards up but Lock pulled him upwards violently.

"What are you doing in here, Venice?" Lock growled, chucking him out the room. "Pay no mind to them, they are a failed experiment."

Venice's hands were stained with some of the liquid and he rushed to Ciel, placing his most heavily stained finger into the boy's chilled mouth. It felt strange and sent peculiar shivers down Venice's spine but he refused to notice their presence. "Just a moment longer…" he muttered, putting in a different finger, "And so help me if this doesn't work…!"

Ciel stirred, his eyes fluttering open. Ven smiled and stood. Ciel's eyes widened and he cried out. Everything went black for Venice when a heavy blow came across his head, knocking him silly and to the ground.


	13. Optimist

The optimist watched Venice fall with trembling hopes. He stepped forwards, still holding on to the hope that things will turn for the best—no matter how hard he had to fight for it. Blood trickled from Ven's pale ear, his eyes painfully shut.

Lock looked at his bloodied fist in dim horror. "I didn't mean to knock him senseless," he muttered, turning his attention to the body at his feet. Ciel was still trying to wake up, guarded by Sebastian who held Rockwell's gun against the portly man.

"You really are in for it this time, Theodore." Arthur said evenly, looking towards Lock evenly. All the chatter died down and a faint smell of decay invaded the room. "What is the matter with you? Are you addicted to torturing yourself?"

Lock stared forwards, avoiding Arthur's gaze motionlessly.

"What ever happened to the genteel, delicate man your wife married? Whatever happened to the man who wanted never to hurt a soul because he knew the pain himself? When did you start to destroy everything? When did you start to rot? Answer honestly, Lock, you're at the end of the line." Arthur's green eyes gleamed passionately.

"I…"

"Don't you reply to such unnatural scum!" Rockwell spat, glowering.

"And you," Arthur rounded on him. "Keep your incessant blubbering to yourself. I could kill you in a moment. You too, Lock. You're life lies on my fingertips and I can blow it away with a simple breath."

"Then do it," Lock muttered. "Ever since my wife perished in my own arms I've been this way. There's no going back for me now."

Rockwell started to protest but Sebastian brandished the gun before him and he fell silent. No one dared stir. All eyes planted themselves firmly on Arthur, feeling terror rise up within them. Who was this man playing as a deity before them?

Clearing his throat, Arthur said at length: "I see, now. You were the scoundrel who unearthed his wife's grave some years ago and ordered Rockwell who was somehow indebted to you to bring forth those dolls, if my information is correct."

Slowly, Lock began to nod.

"I see. But what's interesting is why did your run out of the house and why did everything happen afterwards? Why did you force a butler to him and why did you make him believe himself to be a sickly, useless object? Did he see the dead body of his mother and run away in terror, so you gave him your own butler to act as a friend and then you gave him this fabricated illness as a way to dull his thoughts? I doubt this was just for your own bitter enjoyment. You do love him, don't you?"

Ciel now could sit straight, his breathing regulated, but his mind still blurry. Sebastian stepped closer to him, not taking his eyes of the trembling Rockwell.

"Though," Arthur continued before Lock could reply, "The dolls is a strange touch but I will take that as an oddity of your own, some sort of manifestation due to the stress having to drug your son and work with a butler like that…" He indicated Dante who leaned on the wall, his face gaunt and his eyes bloodshot.

"All I want is to have my wife back," Lock muttered weakly, "I want her back so I'm trying desperately."

"Going so far as to chop her into little bits and place her in the backs of dolls?" Ciel scoffed.

"I ran out of other ideas. Furthermore, I just want her back so I can raise Venice in peace and he could go on to be a scholar or a doctor or whatever he may want to be!"

"You cannot cheat death." Arthur said dryly. "Believe me, I've tried."

"Who are you?" Lock suddenly flared up, tightening his fingers into fists. "No normal human being could know all of these facts about someone else, let alone look so young but have the eyes of someone thousands of years old!"

Tensing, Arthur took a step back. It was true, what Lock described. Arthur's face was hardly lined with any wrinkles and his hair still had volume and color. But his eyes were sorrowful, mourning something constantly when they weren't enraged or glistening with joy. They were like wells, the top layer behind thin and clear—like an emerald—and then they went in deeper and deeper into a murky, damp abyss. Normally Arthur hid this from passer-bys so no questions would be asked. Anytime he looked them in the eyes it was brief and fleeting. Now it was a different scenario. Now he had to look directly into Lock's dark, stony ones and scrape up his past and see how in intertwined with his.

Everyone was important to Arthur. No matter how insignificant they told themselves to be, they played a key role in his history, being his life and culture and the reason he lived on. Arthur often thought about this, smiling to himself. He was the Optimist, after all.

"I would very much like to know as well," Ciel stated.

"You are not like Hector or I," Sebastian also thought he would put in, "you are unlike anything I have ever seen. You're some sort of enigma, something completely out of this world."

"I may not be quite as old as your species," Arthur said. These lives were fleeting, and what harm would be done if they found out? He decided to let slip some of his secret. "But I am of a race old as civilization. And no, I'm completely part of this world. Sometimes I imagine myself not to have come from a womb or from a thin celestial membrane but from the earth, brought up and shaped into a human and given like by some goddess, as some cultures say man to have been created." He laughed good-naturedly, smiling.

"That still doesn't answer our question." Lock said. His hands dangled at his side. The blood on his knuckles dried. Ven stirred slight, escaping everyone's attention, however. He blinked slowly, looking around. He met Arthur's eyes and felt a strong urge to remain dormant. He thought he saw Arthur's eyelid twitch into a wink.

"Do you really expect me to answer you in a direct fashion?" Arthur put his hands into his pockets. "Besides, I did answer your question."

* * *

_A/N: Thank you all so much for those kind reviews! Keep them coming, they've really inspired me to continue writing this story and do so with all my heart! And, to address a question already asked but undoubtedly thought many more times: the spelling of "bly me" vs "blimey" Yes, it can be spelled both ways. "Bly me" however was used more often in some older literature and I thought it would fit this time period better. (Shaw uses this spelling in Pygmalion). Thanks again! I read all the reviews even if I may not respond to all! _


	14. Pessimist

The pessimist woke to the scene before him and inwardly writhed. Little was being down at the slowly becoming corpse at his feet. No goal was being achieved, he felt, except for the exposition of morals which he felt did much less than killing the two men before him.

He noticed Venice's head shift upwards slight, a fact which eluded both butlers, Rockwell, and Lock. Arthur made some sort of gesture and Ciel felt to keep quiet on the matter would be the wisest course of action.

Arthur and Sebastian obviously had some sort of motive for keeping them alive. Sebastian stepped closer to the rejuvenated Ciel like a mother cat would toward her kittens. The other butler, Dante or Zadig or Hector, shifted and raised his head. Half of his face was clammy and pale while the other half was lividly red, as though freshly burned. Crimson eyes blinked to life, seeking something from the others in the room. At last his gaze landed on Ciel. The exposed reddened fleshy trembled and his lips moved to speak. Ciel could not decipher a single word.

He rose and drew all attention to him.

"Sir, is it a good idea to stand in your present condition?" Sebastian said, keeping his gaze on Rockwell.

"Yes," Lock agreed, coming towards him. "You mustn't-!"

Ciel backed away and ignored them both, shouldering past them and crouching down towards the wounded butler.

"What were you saying?" Ciel said, fearless. The crumpled demon before him seemed hardly able to even make a sound. His lips contorted, as if in great pain, and he made another effort to make a sound.

"M-master…" he breathed. Ciel grunted, feeling a pressure rise up in his chest. The antidote Venice had supplied him, coating his fingers, had not been enough to satisfy the poison working through Ciel's veins.

"Well," Ciel managed to say, "I'm afraid your master is dead. At least one of them."

Arthur glowered and Lock bent down to see Venice, but Sebastian stopped him with his foot pressing against the lightly whiskered face.

Rockwell tried to get away but Sebastian rounded on him with singing fury lining his eyes. Rockwell apologized and stepped back in place, gnawing his lip in frustration. "Can't you let me go?" He begged suddenly, giving way to a catty smile, "I only am indebted for that one favor to this man. He saved my wife's life, made her all loony to she would forget her mental disorder and allow it time to heal. I won't meddle again in his affairs, I promise. No good could have come of it anyway, I'm sure. Look, I cross my heart." As he did just so Lock turned sadly to him.

"Evil affairs…?" he muttered, as though finally coming to the realization in that moment alone.

"Yes, are his intentions purely to do mankind bad? He doesn't seem to have a trace of misanthropy or any hostility towards mankind. He seems devout in helping only himself and his near family. In fact, I doubt he wanted to do anyone harm and Ciel's condition was of your own doing." Arthur pointed out.

"I don't recall ever asking you to poison an innocent child." Lock agreed softly.

"Oh? Is that so…" Rockwell straightened and tugged at his jacket, "I thought he was going to interfere so it was in my best interest to subdue him."

"By killing the boy?" Lock retorted, his face twisting in rage, "I was expecting better from you, Rockwell!"

"You liar," Rockwell said.

But before the matter of who was lying and who was being honest could have been delved into further, Sebastian swooped out of the scene and raised Ciel above his head. Moments before, while Ciel had been trying to convince Dante that his master was dead and that he had failed (in an attempt to send him into more swirling agony and rip him from the current situation) Dante had lashed out. His fingers were inches from Ciel's face, read to tear and claw. Sebastian was glued to the scene from the beginning and would not allow even a scratch to be afflicted to Ciel while he could help it.

So Dante lay, unguarded, his hands stretching out like withered tree limbs. His teeth were shown, sharp and gritted. "Master!" he called, raising himself. His chest heaved with the effort.

"I've said it before I'll say it a million times more!" Arthur cried, stepping between Rockwell and Lock, "You bit off more than you could chew, Dante! Granted, one of these extra attachments was an order—and a bargain—but an order nonetheless. I suppose then that this is partially your doing. The both of you were only going for what you wanted, trying to scrape up all the good in the world for yourself. Rockwell outright did it." Rockwell made no objection, having kept his dignity proud and clear. "And Lock, more pathetically, tried to cover it up by saying it was for his family's greater good. It's very clear, now, and I don't even have to be me to know how obviously clear your motives are. Now who was lying about the poison may not be clear."

"You talk too much," Rockwell interrupted dryly, "You should learn to hold your tongue."

Arthur sensed something sharp and cold at his side and looked down to find Rockwell's miniature gun pointed at his abdomen.

Tears sprung up in Arthur's eyes, causing the green to sparkle. Genuine sadness crossed his features and his lips paled. "You wouldn't. Whatever had I done to you?"

Ciel, now firmly planted back on his feet, pulled Venice's bony body away from the two. If Arthur perished then those two would be harder to deal with, but Ciel was not a fool enough to come between a gun and a weepy victim. Venice opened his eyes and his heart shook in terror.

"No!" He called.

"Ven?" Lock turned to him, his expression unreadable.

Ciel and Sebastian pulled him away as soon as a gunshot rung out through the small house. Arthur fell with a dull thud, landing face-up on the carpet, leaking blood onto it and his eyes blankly staring upwards.

"Bloody easy to kill, those intellectuals," Rockwell said, tucking his gun away.

"What do we do now?" Ciel hissed. "Sebastian, I order you to find a solution!"

"Yes, my lord." Sebastian said.

Dante's fingers curled around his ankle and he looked down.

"He's alive," he said, indication Ven with a bob of his head. "You lied."

"But you should have known." Sebastian said. "If your master was dead it would hurt more."

"Their life lines are tangled together, like strings!" Dante began to explain. Sebastian kicked his head, knocking him back and unlatching the stiff fingers from his foot.

"Now, I'm on an order. What do you two want?" Sebastian said, trying to compensate.

"Leave us alone," Lock said.

"But we could get so much more!" Rockwell said greedily, leaning forwards and showing his true colors.

Lock scowled. "I've sinned enough. I think it's time for me to finally do some good."

"We can leave you alone, but you have interfered with us in the first place and you, a criminal for digging up your wife and convincing a child he had a made-up illness, should be charged for your misdeeds." Sebastian said evenly, looking down at Arthur who openly winked at him. He allowed a smirk to cross his face.

"What are you smiling at?" Rockwell spat, his face ruddy.

"Oh, nothing," Sebastian chuckled, "But you must understand that vermin like you must be eradicated before you infest something else."

"Are you suggesting that you should kill us?" Rockwell asked.

Lock smiled. "That would be a gift, but I feel he has something else hidden up his sleeve."

Ciel walked up behind them. "Sebastian may not, but I'm certain one of the corpses in this room does."

"What the bloody hell are you going on about, boy?" Rockwell said. Mimicking a move from before, Arthur, quite alive, grabbed his ankle. Rockwell let out a girlish screech and hopped, looking down in great terror. At first he hardly understood what had happened, but as the facts dawned on him, he picked up the gun and shot wildly at Arthur, to no avail.

"I only entertained that notion of me being dead to amuse you," Arthur said, laughing. The wound sealed up at his side and no bullet even grazed him. Rockwell continued to pull the trigger to an emptied gun.

"Are you like them?" Rockwell blustered, "Oh don't kill me! Please! I'm far too young! I haven't enough white hairs in my bear." He clapped his hands together, as though in prayer, and begged with tears and snot trailing down his face, "I'll pay you a handsome ransom if you will! I'll go to jail with my tail between my legs! I'll turn in Lock, I'll do whatever you want! I'll take a whiff of my own poison, a trademark concoction made by yours truly! But please, spare me my life! Have mercy on me! I won't carry out any other plans. I won't use my half of the dolls to distribute them, laced with my special poison, and hand them out to little children and sell their poor parents my antidote—another one of my own creations—and take their money until they're dirt poor!"

Arthur stared aghast and kicked Rockwell away. "Bly me, I thought only villains in those romances blurted out their plans. To add to that I thought only they could have such diabolically cruel plans."

Venice had tears trailing down his face. He clung to his father, clutching his trouser and sobbing into them. Lock stood motionless, patting his son's head.

Arthur burst into laughter. "Theodore, tell me, did you know about this? Or were you an accomplice? It gets better and better!"

"He's mad," Ciel said aside to Sebastian.

"He's planning something," Dante croaked.

"How do you know?" Sebastian said.

"Isn't it obvious? He's brilliant. Ever since I knew him he always treaded that fine line between 'good' and 'evil', though their natures still remain unintelligible to me. At any rate, he's buying himself some time."

"Are you saying then," Ciel said, disgusted at the blubbering display before him, feeling distinctly like he had walked into a loony bin, "That he isn't doing this to help us?"

Dante did not reply and instead watched. Arthur stopped laughing, wiping his face. Lock abstained from a verbal answer and instead shook his head "no". Venice saw and came to an abrupt stop, his face shifting completely. The tears dried and his lips turned into a smirk, though he kept his head bowed and his face hidden from all. Ciel noticed and felt an ominous sign had been displayed bright and clear to him. Venice turned out to be something more than a weakling and Ciel gained a new respect for him.

Rockwell, however, remained begging for his life, making a sign over his head and mumbling nonsense. Arthur stared down at him, and said; "Why would you send me marigolds?"

Those beady eyes widened in confusion. "Why would I send you marigolds? I don't even know where to get them this time of year! I don't even know you!"

Arthur's expression fell. "I was so sure…"

"Marigolds?" Ciel asked. "Why would he be so upset over a bunch of flowers?"

Sebastian stared at the two, watching Venice slowly stand up, his face still hidden from view. "Marigolds are a sign of cruelty."

"All this over a symbol?" Ciel shook his head, clearly disappointed in the low rate of productivity that came from the day. "At least we stopped one villain from hurting little children. Paupers these days are easy to fool."

"Symbols can mean quite a lot to certain people, my lord," Sebastian explained lowly.

"Then who sent those bloody flowers and what did they mean by it?" Arthur was in a state of shock. He had been so terribly sure that the climax to the accusation had wrung his nerves dry.

"You seem so terribly intelligent, Arthur Kirkland," Venice said, now standing beside his father, "That I was certain you'd see right through this riddle."

"Go lay down, Venice," Lock said, "You need rest, don't bother yourself now."

"Oh, father, but surely he wanted to know that I sent the flowers."

Arthur gawked, not knowing where to look or what to do.

"Why?" he managed, at length, to whisper.


	15. Opportunist

The opportunist felt short of breath. He had taken that opportunity to declare himself as villain, but as he ruminated over the idea his viewpoint shifted. The build-up of the moment had excited his weak little heart. The idea of him being the true antagonist all along consumed him suddenly. However, it was true that he had sent the marigolds, packaging them in a stray envelope Rockwell left behind and sending them to the one man he knew for sure would understand not only their meaning—but deserved to see it.

"Why?" Arthur repeated his question, staring at Venice, prying for answers.

Ven turned to him, his smile falling away and his shoulders sinking. "I did not intend to send you cruelty, I meant to warn you." He admitted at last, slumping on the couch, exhausted. Dante crawled over, his nails digging into the shoddy carpet and his face healing slowly. "Zadig…?" Venice whispered, "You told me about this."

"Told you about what?" Arthur said, annoyed.

"He told me that you would be the subject of cruelty soon and that I should warn you." A smile passed over his face. Tears threatened to well up in his eyes.

"Warn me about what? What cruelty?" Arthur felt a peculiar feeling rising up. Although he was never pugnacious before, he hastened to throw himself at Dante. Succumbing to violence he would strangle the butler until he explained himself.

Dante did not reply, only watch him pitifully. Sebastian watched grimly, holding Ciel back. Impatient Ciel wanted to get out of the stuffy apartment and go home. He wanted to rest with a comfortable dinner and lay down in his silky sheets, dropping off into the abyss of sleep in peace until the new day brought something new—something productive.

"I don't know!" Venice cried, "I really tried to get Zadig to tell me but he's so stubborn! All I understood was something very terrible is awakening, some sort of league of horrid beings that concerns all like him, all those butlers I mean… I don't know what this has to do with you, but I suppose anyone who has anything to do with his kind are by default included in whatever it is…"

Sebastian stepped forwards and grabbed Dante's hair gruffly, pulling him up. The white streak fell from his fingers and landed on his face, a cobwebby mess. Dante stared up at him, his lips parted as if in deep thought.

"What is it? What was so important the cruelty is involved? This man, from what I've gathered, will or could live for many years yet, but what does this have to do with your master? Or mine?"

Dante only grinned, licking his teeth and, just as Sebastian was about to raise his fist, said: "I only heard about it… I know nothing about it."

"Have _they _come back?" Sebastian said, disgusted. He dropped Dante and turned back to Ciel. "Young lord, let's go home. It's getting dark and soon enough we won't be able to find a cabby."

"So quickly?" Ciel scoffed, "You hardly allowed time for any closure. What will we do with them?"

"We let them carry out their lives and we shan't meddle further. But first we need some antidote to make sure that poison won't come crawling back."

Until this point Venice had been quietly crying, his heart in rambles. "Them…?" He muttered through tears. "Who are they? You know something, sir."

Sebastian did not respond and approach Rockwell. Rockwell, who had composed himself since now pulled a vial from his pocket labeled with a thin "A". Sebastian collected it and gave it to Ciel to drink.

"Now, I trust that the poison only was set to cause distemper?" The butler asked.

Rockwell nodded, "But of course."

Arthur lingered, watching Ciel and Sebastian leave without a trace. He knew they would arrive home safely, but once they exited his line of vision his knowledge of them dwindled to only the vague memories he had. Shortly afterwards Rockwell made a curt bow and left the three alone.

Lock looked at Arthur. "What do you plan to do? Why have you stayed?"

"I want to know your son's side of the story. I feel like there is more to him than you think. But most parents are ignorant in that respect. You know your child much less than you think you do." Arthur responded, cheering up at once now that the big matter at hand had been settled sufficiently. Ciel was healed, the dolls wouldn't be distributed, and Lock would continue with his macabre acts. But Venice remained a mystery. When Arthur tried to peer into the darkly ringed eyes he felt cut off, as though a brick wall fell between them and he could only look through the cracks and the murky other side.

Venice looked up quite suddenly when Arthur sat beside him, causing the couch to sink. "So tell me, Ven, why are you crying? Everyone got away alive in the end."

"You'll laugh at me," Venice replied quietly.

"I may as well, but it won't be a mocking laugh." Arthur responded.

Lock sat across from them, regarding the two expectantly. Arthur gave him a questioning glance. "Just as you said," the doctor mumbled, "I don't know anything about my son outside of his dreams and what I made of him."

Venice tried to smile as he began, gaining energy as he went on: "I'm crying because I feel so much. Nothing bad has happened and I know it's shameful for a boy my age to cry and feel upset without reason. But here I sit, brazenly weeping for the silliest reasons. I cry because I love you. I love you like I love my father, like I love Rockwell, like I came to love Ciel and Zadig and Sebastian."

"How could you love us when you've only seen us for moments?" Arthur said, though he knew the answer.

"I have so much love inside my heart that I don't know where to put it, so I placed it upon all of mankind as a whole. I love mankind. I feel that they are genuinely good at heart and that their actions are a result of their upbringing and not who they truly are. I tried once to put all my love into a single person. At first I placed it upon my mother, a nonexistent figure in my life. This projected love could not last long because it had nothing breathing to connect to. It had nothing to latch onto and feed off of. I tried in vain to continue loving this mother even though I never heard her laugh or say a single word. And if I did, I don't remember it. I love you the way you might love the bright blue sky or the final note of a beautifully orchestrated piece. I love Lock like a father and I love Rockwell like an intelligent author I've never met. I love him despite his personality. Then I tried to project it on someone I spotted in the street or some character in a book. I became so terribly infatuated that it was unhealthy and counterproductive. In the end I decided to gather this endless love and direct it at humankind."

Arthur stared pensively at the boy and nodded to himself. "I see. But do will you still love mankind when you hear of the horrible things that they do?"

"Yes."

"Then listen well. In a town not far off from here a group of boys, no older than you, gathered together on a daily basis and preformed violent and cruel acts on neighboring cats. They would pick them up by their tails and cut off all their toes. One at a time they would dissect the being with twigs and rocks, laughing each time it cried out. I will spare you the details. You are a smart boy, so I assume you know the rest. Do you still love mankind?"

"Slander them as you will," Venice said, though fresh tears had poured down his cheeks as the images of the cats flashed before his eyes. "But I stay true to my words. Those boys perhaps knew no better or had a warp in morals. But I still love mankind as a whole."

"You say this," Arthur observed, "But you realize you're doing it all over again."

"Doing what?"

"You're projecting your love at a being not present directly in your life. Just like you did your mother; you idealize people. Listen, I know man well, I have been with them all my life and I am much older than you. I don't agree nor do I disagree. I think that your soul is precious and that Dante made a great gain when he agreed to attaching his will to your being. We need more people like you, especially where I'm from. You know, you remind me of a friend…

"I have an Italian friend named Feliciano. He has an endless pit of love inside him as well, just like you, Ven, and he does not know where to place it again. He fears that he will suffocate if he keeps it bound inside his chest for too long. So, he puts it, rather than in mankind where he will be constantly disappointed like a mother and an unruly child, he puts it in nature and in all the good that there is."

Venice's eyes gleamed with a sort of pride bubbling up. He wanted at once to meet this Feliciano. "But," he caught himself saying, and this surprised him, "—but goodness is not something tangible and it is even less identifiable."

"True," Arthur grinned, "He projects it to good things that he knows are good and are irrefutably so. He loves good cooking and food. He loves the summer skies and the winter snow. The sweet sound of singing, the way stars gleam in an open field, the way people are kind without hidden motives—he makes a point to openly proclaim those, and others, as his focus in life. I wish I could do that. Then again I'm a bitter old man who has thought too much and lived too little."

A hush fell over them as Ven contemplated what to say next. Again, he was moved deeply and wanted to cry, but he tried to abstain. He looked over at Arthur, who sat hunched over. His darkly colored trench coat was stained by time and wear in areas. Sandy blonde hair fell into his sage eyes and something else was there, too. Some omnipotent force rested on his shoulders—crueler than time and more useful than wisdom. Arthur was old, Venice understood that, and he knew it very well. Arthur's self-laceration was made obvious by the way he held himself. Every day he fought with himself, fought with his morals and tried to tend to them and make them more beautiful and righteous. He fought with himself so much he grew tired of it and had to find a new victim, someone else to inflict his pent up rage. But that would only cause a new inner debate and he would try then to make amends by being more charming or kinder with someone else.

Venice had seen it all before in other patients who visited his father. For instance, a young, feisty woman entered the tiny office, dragged in by a bedraggled older sister. The sister complained loudly enough to wake Venice from his nap. She begged Lock to fix up the bad temper because it was too much. "Mother's gone blooming mad! And then, when she tells her off she goes to father who drinks himself silly on a nightly bases—and how badly that goes!" she had cried out. Then, after a quick chat with the temperamental woman, Lock explained it in a hushed voice. Venice heard it all and made sure to memorize it. And here was Arthur with that same characteristic.

"Arthur…?" Venice said at length.

Arthur looked over at him.

"Are you afraid?"

"I…" Arthur scratched his neck, "I don't really know. I've been threatened before."

Venice nodded.

"You know, Zadig didn't have to convince me to send the flowers. Once I heard that you were in danger I was so terrified at once I decided to send them! If only I knew more about that ridiculous language. I would have sent you something better."

Venice stood. Lock did as well, but he turned away and left Venice standing alone with Arthur. "Well, I'm afraid."

"You don't have to be."

"Things will change from now on, won't they?"

"For you, I'm sure they will. For me: I don't think it will be noticeably quick enough."

Venice bent down and picked up Arthur's hand, pressing a kiss to the coarse knuckles as a sign of respect. With his elders Venice was especially gentle. This made Arthur feel older and consequentially sadder.

"Good bye, Venice. I fear that this was the first and last time our paths will cross." Arthur said, collecting his things and making for the door.

"So be it." Venice chuckled lightly.

"And, as it may be, Dante—who is nowhere to be seen—will cross with my life time many more times yet." Arthur looked around. Dante, or Zadig, and soon no longer to be Hector, had vanished from view. "But I believe you'll be seeing Ciel and Sebastian shortly."

Arthur turned and left, clambering down the stairs and entering the chilly night. A stray cabby loitered about in the front and he beckoned them over, asking to be carried off to his house. The cabby agreed in a heavy cockney accent, whipping his horse and riding off into the night. The skies were clear and each star glistened brightly, as though they were freshly planted in their positions.

Venice stared up at them from his window, feeling tired but more alive now without his "medication". And the skies—oh the skies! How far away they seemed. For a moment he fancied to reach out and collect one in his hands from how clear and bright they were. But they, just like his mother, were quite unreachable. But, Venice thought to himself, so be it.

* * *

_And so we draw to an end of Part I: So Be It. Thank you for the reviews and keep them coming! I'm not done yet. _

_On a side note-I'm glad my original characters are to your liking! I'm elated to find that they weren't annoying or Mary-Sues. I tried my hardest to give every character as much depth and personality as I could. I hope that shows. _


	16. Black Swan

**The Nightmare**

Summer rolled through Paris, bringing fresh flowers and fresh air through the network of the city. People clattered by without heavy coats. Children in shorts and short sleeves raced through the streets, calling to one another. Thieves lurked through the crowds, picking off all they could and hiding it away in their greasy sleeves.

Francis Bonnefoy was behind such a thief and, with a raised hand, changed his fate. The woman who owned the purse his dirty hands were buried in turned violently. The purse jerked from his grasp and she, offended and astonished, smacked him on the head and dashed away. Francis smiled, despite knowing that she would never know who rescued her from the robbery. The thief did not notice Francis either and grumbled to himself, rubbing his reddened cheek and lurking away.

It was one of those rare days that the sun overpowered the clouds, drying up the rain and allowing warmth to gently unfold on the skin of the French people. Francis adjusted his lapel, making sure his pin was in shape and his hair, tied back with a red ribbon, reached his shoulder blades. He needed to cut it, he realized, but decided he would hold it off. He passed by a flower shop and purchased a bouquet of chrysanthemums, carrying them in one arm and a bottle of wine in the other.

The bundles were for two separate occasions, as he was a very busy man. The flowers he would use first. He went down the street and, avoiding galloping cabs, rushed to the hill of green. His shirt tails trailed behind him in a whispering wind, like black banners. People were gathered in the cemetery, their heads bowed gloomily. All were dressed in black. Women wore great shawls around their shoulders and beautiful hats that tilted to cover their faces. Morose and pale-faced men looked on to the proceeding, looking at the coffin before them. Within that coffin was an old professor who had died of fever the morning before. Tears stained one woman's face. She was elderly and graying, but her gray eyes were filled with electric energy fueled by sorrow. Francis rarely visited funerals, but saw that he was passing through this one and decided to pay his respects.

He placed the bundle of chrysanthemums by their kin and bowed in courtesy to the people, who couldn't help but feel a gleaming hope rise up in their minds. This was a common occurrence for anyone who came across one of the nations, and it was unexplainable for them. Most of the mourners believed that it was due to the pure and clean face before them. Others believed in something more distinct and miraculous. But in a moment Francis disappeared down the hill, the bottle tucked under his arm. The hope lingered in their hearts like a phantom, fading but never departing completely.

Now Francis entered the impoverished and dirty part of town. Dirtied, brown faces looked up at the sound of his clicking heels. Their eyes widened on their ill faces.

Francis stopped and dug through his pockets, finding some francs, and placing them in the hands of a withered-looking woman. She stared at the money in horror and held it back out to him, opening her toothless mouth and beginning him to take it back.

Francis gently pressed her hand and curled back her fingers. "No," he said, "you must keep it. It brings me great grief to see how people can live in such a state while above them people in fine gowns and pompous noses stuck in the air can trot upon you. I can do so much, but for the suffering I can do little."

The woman burst into wretched tears, covering her face and thanking him. She fell to her knees and bowed at his feet, kissing his boots.

Her children grinned at him. The younger ones could not understand their mother's frenzy. The older, wiser ones had gratitude lining their faces.

"Mister!" the cried, "What can we do to repay you?"

"Use it wisely," Francis said compassionately, trying desperately not to cry. The woman now stood again, thanking him a million times over, even after he left her line of sight.

Once he had his back to them he had to suck in a deep breath to keep sadness from his voice. He continued down the streets and, bowing to several passer-bys, went to the end of the neighborhood. There was an inn there, clean as it could be. Francis entered and was greeted by the owners.

They were a couple, both short and healthy with ruddy faces and gleaming eyes. The man had little hair and a mousy smile. His wife had a stern complexion and was prone to beating her husband when he went out drinking or gambling too much. She pinched his arm whenever he reached for the wine cellar and he would wince and walk away. She, triumphantly, would reward herself with a five minute rest from her incessant tidying of the place.

"Hello, Mister Bonnefoy," he said, shaking the man's hand. It is important to note that all conversations that took place were in French. The man spoke with an Italian accent, however, and constructed his sentences as though they were Spanish. Francis always found that a bit odd.

Nonetheless, he replied in his smooth and lilting tongue, "Hello Jean."

Jean was his pseudonym, which he used instead of his birth-given Italian title. His wife took on the name "Maria", however.

"A mister Vargas awaits you upstairs," Maria said in a commanding tone. She spoke perfect French, having had a French mother bring her up.

Francis thanked them and clambered up the stairs. He discovered one door slightly ajar. From the other side was a harsh, Italian muttering. Francis knocked on the door with two knuckles and chairs hissed as they were pushed back on carpet. The door swung open and Feliciano greeted him. He wore a plain cotton shirt and pants, his feet in stockings and his boots laying one on top of the other in the corner of the room. Feliciano smiled brightly in greeting and welcomed Francis in. His smooth amber-colored hair was combed back, save for the one hair that stuck up like a flag.

The other person in the room was Feliciano's surly and conceited brother, Lovino. He grunted a hello and crossed his arms tightly.

"I brought you this," Francis said, in English, holding up the bottle.

"Thank you!" Feliciano replied, also in English. They spoke this language when around each other. This was not because neither knew the other's mother tongue but because they did not wish to be overheard by the innkeepers. Unfortunately, they never thought of the neighbors on either side of them.

Feliciano set the bottle on a table near Lovino, who uncorked it and poured it into three already set glasses.

Francis sat down gently on one chair and Feliciano took the bed side, grabbing his glass of crimson wine. Lovino handed the other cup to Francis who did not bring it to his lips but held it in his palm of to the side.

"You brought us here for what? What do you want?" Lovino asked harshly.

"Can't you let me rest for a moment?" Francis smiled, taking another deep breath. He hadn't quite recovered from his run in with the poor from earlier.

"We don't have that much time. The train leaves at seven and we hoped to be finished by then."

No one touched their drinks. The brothers looked at Francis who had gathered his thoughts. Slowly, and building energy as he went on, Francis began.

"So I'm sure you remember our last meeting, right?" The two nodded. "Well, Arthur came up to me with an envelope filled with marigolds, and I'm sure you know their significance. He discussed them with me and then left to investigate the matter. This was four months ago and some time ago he came up to me and told me of it. I'm sure you two know of the demon butlers that lurk our world." Here, Francis relayed what Arthur had told him, detailing the cruel act Rockwell wished to carry through and the strange acts of Dante.

Lovino downed his glass and poured himself more, his cheeks tinted pink. "And what do you want us to do?"

"I only wanted to bring it to your attention, as somehow it concerns us. In fact, I received my own letter some time ago." Francis pulled an envelope, torn at one corner, and held it out to them.

Lovino picked it up and pulled the package open. Inside there was a piece of parchment. He unfolded it and held it up. Written on it, in dried blood, was the letter "F".

"Is this the first one?" Lovino said, setting the letter aside, apparently undaunted.

"First one…?" Francis frowned, "It's the first one I've gotten in a very long time."

"What did the other ones say?"

"That was years ago! It had, in the same 'ink', the letters an 'I' and an 'N'."

Lovino held the cup rim to his lips and tapped it against his teeth, seemingly in deep thought. His dark, brooding eyes fastened on the paper. The edges were frayed and curling inwards. The blood it was written in was old and smelled faintly of metal.

"I suppose it's a message," Francis said.

Feliciano, who had otherwise remained silent, spoke up. "Do you think it could be trying to spell 'inferno'?"

"Could very well be trying to do that," Lovino agreed.

Feliciano ran his fingers through his hairs, loosening it and allowing his bangs to fall forwards. His hairline was bright red, even though he hadn't even touched his drink. Francis took a swig and set the glass down, enjoying the bitter taste.

"If Arthur has hellish messages then that would be quite possible. But what do they want with us?"

"Are you asking what Hell wants with us?" Lovino scoffed, downing another glass.

"Careful, you'll get drunk," Feliciano muttered.

"I have reason to believe that some sort of group wants to interfere with us and possibly cause us harm." Francis concluded.

Feliciano looked uneasy, almost sick. He placed his untouched glass beside Francis's and placed his elbows on his knees, holding his chin in his palms. Several people scuffled in the room to their right and Maria could be heard shouting in Italian to her husband. Feliciano winced as a particularly nasty insult was hollered.

"Have you spoken to anyone else about this?" Lovino asked.

"No, only you two," Francis paused, noticing Feliciano's growing discomfort, "I plan to speak with Antonio later on."

"Why us in particular?"

"First off, you're closest, and second off: I have a feeling you, too, have received these strange messages."

Lovino raised his head and looked at Feliciano. Feliciano smiled wanly. Lovino frowned in response. "I'm awful at keeping up with the mail. That's Feliciano's job, and I suppose he has found something."

Feliciano nodded and slipped off the bed. He went to the desk and picked up his coat which was strewn across it. He dug in his pockets and found an envelope, similar to Francis's, though yellowed and in worse condition.

Francis took it and gingerly peeled it open. Inside there was a crumbling, blacked bone, as big as a bird's. He held it between two fingers and stared intently, trying to discover its origin. "This is…"

"It's a bone from someone's wrist. It's awful," Feliciano said, covering his face in anguish. "I was very scared when I saw it. I hid it right away, afraid someone would find it. My heart was thudding! I couldn't bare it."

Francis, disgusted, put the bone back and returned the envelope to Feliciano's pocket. He did not sit back down and instead paced back and forth, his eyes forwards and misty with thought.

"It could have been some sort of prank or method of frightening us," Lovino suggested, raising the bottle again. Feliciano touched his shoulder and he, angrily, tore away and poured more, splashing some down his hands. The fluid trailed down his knuckles, as though it was blood from a wound.

"A prank that has been going on for over a hundred years?" Francis gave him a hateful smile. "And furthermore, no one knows our addresses but the others and some important figures! I hope you don't mind if I take off my coat, it's getting dreadfully hot in here." He added quickly, tugging off his coat and gently placing it on a hook at the door.

His and Feliciano's coats—Lovino refused to bring one—were simply for formality and extra pockets. Francis, now free in a regular dress shirt, sat back down.

Feliciano looked at the both of them. Lovino was starting to get drunk. Feliciano swiped the bottle away and stashed it in a cupboard, locking it. Lovino scowled and finished the dregs in his cup.

Lovino had been discomforted for several days and drinking at an irregular rate for him. He usually resorted to a cup or two on formal occasions or to give himself a treat, but now he lapped it up every time he saw some. His actions and constant grumblings upset Feliciano who loved his brother passionately.

Alas, Lovino's story is for a later time.

"What should we do?" Francis asked Feliciano warmly and confidently.

"I think we should see what Arthur has in mind. You can't deny that he is intelligent, no matter how many quarrels you two get in." Feliciano said, blushing at the recognition.

"We don't quarrel that often in these past days. I think it's because of this. He's been so absorbed in this mystery that he's put off insulting me. But his slanders will come soon enough." Francis said sadly. He quite enjoyed being treated as an equal by Arthur.

Besides the obvious conflicts between Francis and him, Arthur had trouble with talking to certain people. He had grown too accustomed to looking down on others as beings of lower intelligence and it had carried on to everyone, even scholars who he knew had a greater knowledge of certain subjects than he. But that too is a story for another time.

Lovino stood and dropped on the bed like a heavy weight, falling asleep as alcohol flowed through his veins. Feliciano sat next to him, gently passing his hand through his brother's hair. Lovino scowled even in his sleep. Feliciano smiled warmly at that.

Francis watched in admiration. He longed suddenly for a brother he could comfort in a similar way, but it was only a minor longing that faded away in an instant. "I suppose we will have to wait for Arthur, then." Francis paused, "There was one last thing that I wanted to ask you."

Feliciano looked up at him, his eyes wide and interested, as if telling him "go on."

Francis wet his lips, unsure of where to start.

"I think… Oh, Feliciano, listen to me while your brother sleeps!" He broke out in sudden passion, trying to keep his voice low. He sat down and took Feliciano's free hand, pressing it. "Please, Feliciano, you're so gentle and warm that it is impossible to dislike you. You know I love you, my dear, amiable thing, and I trust you to give me the best advice. But you must promise not to judge or hate me! That's what's holding me back."

Overwhelmed, Feliciano stammered. "I-I won't hate you, Francis, you're like a brother to me, an older one whose judgment I trust without fail!"

"I'm so glad," Francis smiled, kissing Feliciano's hand, "But you must listen very closely, I'll be brief I promise. Some strange feeling has come over me. I don't know if it relates to these doomed messages or not, but they are just as frightening! Listen, I live in the heart of Paris and I know all my neighbors very well. One is a painter who loathes himself and threatens to tie a noose around his neck if his next painting fails to bring him some money. His wife is worried that her job as a grocer won't suffice for the two of them for much longer. My other neighbor owns a faltering business in a book shop. He is upset but he thrives on. Oh how beautiful people can be! And oh, how ugly too. My other neighbor was once a soldier and he, laughing, once beheaded an enemy in front of his children.

"But my point is not to relate all these tales and how they tangle together in the end. I see their fates and destinies clearly and I cannot interfere, no matter how much I would like to. My point is this: I've wanted to become one of them. I've wanted to give up my deathless life and become one of the mortal humans! I thought about this many times. I could have myself killed beyond repair and perhaps I would rise from my grave as a young child, fresh to the world and ready to experience it without the knowledge of everyone's life that I meet.

"I don't understand why I feel this way and I know I cannot separate myself from this life. But I need some comfort and Feliciano, dearest and most pure of all of us, what do I do?"

He was quite breathless. His eyes gleamed desperately at Feliciano. It was obvious he had longed to tell this for a very long time. Feliciano looked back at him. He thought about it for a moment, casting his eyes downwards and dropping his soldiers. Lovino slept soundly behind him.

"Francis," Feliciano said softly, "You know I'm not the purest. You know I've had my share of the darkness and bloodshed of Italy. You know that very well. And as for your situation, I can't respond. I'm not wise enough, nor am I smart enough to help you. But I still can feel for you and understand the heart-ending trauma it causes you. But I say you go against this and live your life out, play your role to its fullest. I-I don't know what to say!" Feliciano laughed tearfully.

"Thank you for helping," Francis beamed. "Just that you understand me and don't shame me is enough. You have some time before your train leaves, but make sure Lovino wakes up and drinks water before he goes. You don't want him to groan the entire trip."

He stood and kissed Feliciano's cheek good-by. "Thank you again. I will call you back, and maybe next time we'll know what to do. I hope, at least, that we meet in peace and not in great peril."

Francis even smiled at Lovino and bent down, clearing his hair from his forehead and placing a kiss on the hot skin. "Good-bye to you, too, my black swan."

* * *

_And so we begin Part II: The Nightmare._

_The style has changed slightly: with more characters and, I hope, stronger and longer chapters. The titles should be longer as well, but perhaps not._

_Reviews are always welcome! I love seeing what you have to say. _

_Note: Some more mature themes in this part, so if you are sensitive to a bit of gore/blood then this is your warning. If it gets too bad in a chapter I will put a trigger warning in the beginning. _

_Thank you for reading!_


	17. Burns

The rain clouds gathered, hiding away the blood red sun as it sunk. The night would be terrifyingly dark, Arthur guessed. He stood outside of his house, wearing a trench coat and bowing his head towards the earth. The metallic scent of rain tinted the air and the earth below his leather boots was soft and dark. All the birds in the world seemed to have hushed at once. Taking a shaking breath, Arthur stepped forwards. He walked away from the outer gates of his home, touching one of the spears that pointed upwards. The black was chipped in areas. Thick, thorny vines wrapped around each on, delicate tendrils quivering in an unfelt wind.

Arthur did not order a cabby and instead took a walk. He approached the outer edges of the city and walked through the dingy, groggy streets. Muddy cats hissed at him as he approached and, sensing no threat, slunk back into the inky darkness. It had taken up the last rays of sunlight to reach this point on foot. Now, as predicted, the sky weighed down with darkness. Not a star was visible, being obstructed by clouds pregnant with rain and trembling to let it loose.

A drunken man stumbled through the streets, humming a tune loudly to himself. The tune was off and he paused, looking towards Arthur with watery eyes barely penetrating the darkness. His cheek bones were high and thin. Dirt smeared his face and hair. He parted his lips in a grin, exposing gnarled yellow teeth. He began to sing.

_Oh my love went down to the sea!_

_And then I learned how sad I could be!_

_So how good I felt to see_

_My door swing right open right in front of me!_

Arthur, disgusted, walked away from the clearly not poetic man. He began furiously walking towards his destination. He stopped when a particular lyric caught his attention

_Death! Decay! And so my Arthur please come hither!_

_Or would you like your world to wither?_

Arthur seized up and looked behind him. The man grinned again and began on his merry way, staggering through the streets and kicking at the muddy cat when it crossed his path. Arthur's heart throbbed inside his chest. "There are many Arthurs…" he tried to comfort himself, walking with even greater vigor towards his destination. "Surely it couldn't have been me he meant."

But these woes were quickly forgotten. He reached a nearby inn and opened the door. The owner was a scrawny, dusty looking woman. She looked up at him with large eyes that popped out of her head. Her eyelids with a scarce amount of eyelashes stretched to cover the great big brown eyes. She smiled, exposing large teeth. "'Ello sir! May I 'elp you with somefink?"

Arthur walked over, greeting her politely. The rain had started plip-plopping against the window. The pearl-sized drops hurled against the window and shattered with a pattering sound. "Hello, ma'am, I would like a room for the night. I'm afraid I couldn't have made it here earlier."

In fact, Arthur wasn't sure as to what he was doing until an hour ago. And even now he hesitated.

She stood up and lifted a piece of paper, pressing her forefinger to it and squinting, trying to find a room she could give to Arthur that was presently vacant. "Now, sir, we've got one room and it en't too big. But y'sir are all by your lonesome now en't'ya?"

Arthur confirmed this.

"Glad to be of service! 'ere's your bill 'n' I'll get you a key, sir!" She turned away, her hair bouncing on her shoulders. Her skirts, tattered and wary, skimmed the floor.

Arthur placed the money on the bill and waited for her to return. She appeared with a bronze-colored key and thanked him. Arthur took it and crept up the groaning stairs. The hallways were uncomfortably thin and smelled of soggy wood. The rain picked up velocity and ferociously slaughtered down on the shabby inn. He could hear the whisperings of the other tenants. In one room two men seemed to be arguing in hoarse voices. Arthur went into his room, finding a dross bed and a tiny blind window. Arthur shut the door behind him and shed his coat, setting it neatly on the bed. The dresser with a Bible and oil lamp atop it had a mirror leaning against the wall sitting in the middle. Arthur pulled his eyelid down, feeling the mark there burn as though someone had dropped acid in there. The pink flesh there was coated in inky black veins. Disturbed, Arthur let go of his eyelashes, accidentally pulling three black hairs out. Arthur placed them in his palm and, closing his eyes, blew them away.

"I wish this would all be over…" he murmured.

His next course of action was to open the letter he discovered on his front porch. All his instincts told him to not open it at home. And, being too old for this, he obeyed them. He tore off the molted envelope and found that the package combusted.

His ears rung and he fell backwards. The envelope had burst into a bright red flame and now fell like ash to the floor. Arthur's hands stung. His legs were jutted out before him. Between his ankles the ashes collected, smelling foul.

Trembling, Arthur looked at his hands to study the damage done. There were burn marks all up his arms. The sleeves of his shirts were burned off, the end now at his biceps were singed and smoking. The burns were bloody red and giving off an unearthly odor. They were words, words in a language Arthur could not understand. They appeared Italian, however, and he at once decided to meet them. But there was one word he understood from his various squandering of the Romantic language.

"Nation"

His heart shriveled up and he decided that he had to hide himself away. These people, if they were even human, were dangerous. He could not risk harming anyone else and had to resort to something completely different. Could he pass off as human? He started building a scenario.

"Arthur J-Ch—no—Henry Kirkland, thirty-five years old born on the blessed day of January… yes, sounds right, and… oh what am I doing." Tears sprung up in his eyes and trailed down his face. He went to wipe them away but the moment the burned skin touched his face it stung. He recoiled and held his hands out before him. The ash had started to eat away at the carpet.

"Dante… Sebastian… somebody…" he found himself whimpering.

* * *

_I apologize for the pathetically short length of this chapter. _


	18. The Matter of Souls

During the evening of an autumnal day rather than having a meeting, the nations decided to throw a reception. At the reception they were not alone. People from all over the world were invited. It was held in the manor of an especially wealthy gentleman in France. In the vast hall, atop the carpeted steps, Francis stood there awaiting his guests to arrive. He wore his trademark white suit and upon his lapel a pin featuring a red-breasted bird sat. Perched on a gilded ring, the bird perked its head upwards, his chubby cheeks prominent. Francis walked down the steps, seeing as how the servants had pulled the doors open.

A distinguished lady with plaited hair and a careworn face with her portly husband was first to come in. She extended her hand, bent at the wrist to Francis. Francis took it and placed a brief kiss on her knuckles, welcoming her. He shook hands with the man and they went into the parlor room, taking glasses of champagne that were offered by one of the maids.

The man who owned the manor was not there. He owed a good deal of his fortune to Francis and his connections and thus gladly left his summer home to him at any time of need. Now he was in Leon visiting an aunt.

Slowly the room filled. Most of the guests that swarmed in were French. Others had already come on a vacation in France and still others had taken the train ride over for the most celebrated occasion. Feliciano approached Francis while the reception went on, greeting and smiling happily at those who came across his way.

Francis looked up, an agitated look straining his face. "Hello, Feliciano," he said in French.

Feliciano's smile fell away at once, dissolving into a frown. "I haven't seen Arthur anywhere. Are you sure you invited him?"

"Of course I did. And it was not even my job to do so. All nations are called at once to the meeting."

"Perhaps he doesn't know where it is!"

"You're being ridiculous." Francis said harshly. At the hurt expression Feliciano gave him he at once lowered his eyes in apology. "I'm sorry, Feliciano, but I don't know where he is and it's bothering me too. And I am positive that it has to do with those letters."

Paling, Feliciano stepped aside to make room for a young lady coming to greet Francis. She gave him a radiant smile and bowed, holding out her hand. In rapid French she gave her name and her position. Francis greeted her offhandedly and she, no more than fifteen years old, walked away with her head held high.

"Francis!" Someone called from among the ranks. Francis turned and discovered the well-suited American Alfred looking at him. His lips were curled into a smile and he shook Francis's hand. "Hello. I've been meaning to ask but is the actual meeting going to be after."

"Of course," Francis said, again in a disinterested, bored tone. "Do you really think these people would stay long enough to discover what we are?"

"'Course not…" Alfred looked uneasy. The trip there had been a hassle. "Another thing, have you seen Arthur?"

Francis's cheek twitched. "No. Have you seen him?"

Alfred shook his head, stretching his mouth to one side. "I thought he wouldn't come. He sent me a letter about a month back saying that he hadn't been feeling very well." He shrugged and walked away, brushing at his blonde hair and making his piercing, youthful eyes more visible.

"Why would he write to him?" Francis said tartly, greeting the man from India who had just arrived.

In the back of the room Francis noticed something, just before Feliciano could give him advice. When he noticed the strange man in the corner his stomach plummeted. An ominous feeling settled on his chest. He nudged Feliciano and directed his attention over. A butler, dressed in all black and spectacled, stood next to a young, blonde hair boy. The boy bounced eagerly and spoke rapidly. He waltzed over to various young men and laughed at them. Towards the young ladies he edged closer than necessary, practically breathing down their necks. Red-faced, the women stepped away from the intrusive young man. In response the boy only laughed and returned to the butler like a puppy would to its mother.

The butler met Francis's gaze and Francis felt cold. Turning away, Francis chose to mingle with various others, shaking hands and kissing knuckles. The reception drew on and the butler went unnoticed, his master eventually too became ignored.

This bothered the boy and he grouchily went over to sit on one of the divans, lounging as if it was his house. He picked at the divan's arm, becoming increasingly bored with the lack of attention. His hair was fair and his eyes blue, his skin clear but maintaining a weariness to it. The sorrow inside seemed to be overwhelmed by the giddy personality he had; like perfume covering a foul smell.

Feliciano greeted the two, holding out his hands. He shook briefly with the butler, who he learned was called Claude, and then greeted the boy. He held his gloved, delicate hands above the boy's head. The boy looked up, staring uncomprehendingly. Eventually he understood and jumped up, shaking the hand, introducing himself as Alois Trancy.

"A pleasure to meet you two," Feliciano said sweetly in accented English. His amber hair was pulled back behind his ears, gleaming in the lamplight.

Claude nodded stoically. Alois burst into a great smile, "And a pleasure to meet you, too, sir." He said.

After an hour the guests filed away, leaving the nations alone to a long table. They sat around it. Kiku, the round-faced, raven-haired man who kept quiet for most of the evening, spoke up. "That was a lovely idea, Francis. I am glad that you chose to do this. I think it is a nice change, we get to relax and talk before we settle down to business."

Francis thanked him and stood up; making a gesture that indicated his desire to lead the meeting. The others, mollified with champagne and delicacies made no objection. Drowsiness began to crop up, giving them a lethargic air.

"Now before we get onto political and economical issues I want to begin with one of the most pressing issues of late," Francis began, holding his hands behind his back like a school boy. All eyes fastened on him. "How many of you have received peculiar letters in your mail? Most of which contain various objects of no obvious reason."

Several raised their hands. Those who did appeared frightened.

"If you notice, as well, Arthur's missing," Francis continued dryly, "He has been struck hardest by those messages and I fear that it has all to do with it. I worry now for our safety and I was tempted to call off this gathering. I think… I think what happened is this.

"A group of people have created a cult and have passed it down through generations and they have been targeting us for some strange reason. They're doing so with these letters and so now my advice is that you do not, under any circumstance, open them. Do not touch them. Dispose of them, burn them, do whatever you need to do. It's like how you don't antagonize an enemy since it will only encourage them to bother you more. And so… what are we supposed to do about it?" He ended weakly, realizing that his terror had propelled only the first half of his soliloquy.

Yao piped up, "I think that we shouldn't ignore them. No matter how hard we try to pretend they are not there they will still be there."

"Yes," Elizaveta said in her thick Hungarian accent, "I think we should actually find out about them." She pulled her pale lips into a smile. Her curled, brown hair hung loose around her shoulder, rolling down her back.

Francis sat back down, happy that their conversation was going along well and productively so far. Even if Arthur was rude they didn't celebrate his loss. Perhaps it was because that he acted the same way to all alike unless he desired something. It was easy to read him. There aren't very many people going around like that. Or perhaps their calm was from the reception.

Roderich cleared his throat. His slim face was pale and grim, his dark eyes glowering. He pushed up his spectacles. "I know zis seems unrelated," he began in his harsh accent, "but did you see that man earlier? He looks very much like me."

"Oh I met him, his name is Claude," Feliciano chimed in.

"Yes, Claude," Roderich said, curling his upper lip and placing his hands on the table, pressing his fingertips together. "Vell I got this very bad feeling from him, like he was dangerous or not of zis world."

Ludwig, dissimilar in appearance as he was similar in blood, agreed. His strong jaw was set. "I saw him and I felt the same thing," his accent was less obvious.

"Perhaps he had just a bad aura," Elizaveta argued, raising her strong hand. "Some men have that and often they are not bad people."

Ivan cast his brooding eyes towards Francis. In broken French, he casually remarked; "Perhaps it's not a cult of people."

Francis looked at him, the idea dawning on him.

"Are you suggesting they are from another world?" Vash, the Swiss man responded also in French.

Disgruntled by the butchering of his language, Francis frowned, but started to respond. However somehow had translated it and Kiku butted in. "No, I think they are not from another world but instead they could be like us. We aren't extraterrestrials and I would assume they aren't either. In fact they seem completely terrestrial, just not human."

Again, Francis tried to interject his comment but another person overrode him. Soon they were speaking one over the other and order was lost.

"If they are like us they could have more authority! More power!"

"That would be horrible but what will they do to the people?"

"I do _not _need another war."

"Have they killed anyone yet?"

"Are they like the-?"

"No don't be silly they're just targeting us."

"Ahh but that's where you're wrong!"

"Oh my goodness!"

"Heavens above!"

"Arthur?"

The final three were all reactions to the very same occurrence. Francis, who was struggling to settle the chaos, found himself yelling in brutal French at a silent room. He paused and turned to the door, which had opened.

Standing there, pale and trembling as though capture by grippe, Arthur stood. He gripped the door handle, looking into the room. His hair was matted and nearly brown with dirt. A bathrobe draped over his shoulders and bandages covered his entire arms, including the fingers. His nose was crimson and his eyes were foggy.

"Arthur…!" Feliciano said being the first to move. He rushed over and gently picked Arthur up, helping him to a seat. He rushed out into the hall and called to one of the maids, telling her at once to bring a carafe of water and a glass. She nodded, her curls bouncing, and scrambled to carry out the orders.

Arthur looked stiffly around the room, his lips parting in a vain attempt to speak.

"No, no, shh…" Feliciano said, gently pressing Arthur's shoulders. "Don't speak, rest. When you've rested then I will allow you to explain."

The entire meeting was on their feet except for Arthur, looking towards him in terror. No one dared move or speak. The maid rushed up, her shoes clattering against the floor. She set the glass on the table and poured water into it, setting them both down, bowing to the gathering, and leaving without another word.

Arthur picked up the glass. His bandages restricted movement and he was only able to bend his elbows and wrists, looking as though he were a doll straining for hydration. After he drank the glass, a drop of water running down his chin and making a track in the dirt, he began to speak in a haggard voice.

"No, I heard what you were talking about. I used up all my energy to come here and I am using the last of it to explain this… Goodness I feel faint. Why are you all standing? You know it's rude," he added gruffly and the others grudgingly pulled up a chair and sat, waiting eagerly for him to explain himself.

"Thank you," he didn't smile, "Now you shan't go out to learn about these groups because you will ultimately get yourselves ill or killed, as I am now, and furthermore you will bring your world into a heap of trouble. I've cut off a majority of my ties with my nation, allowing it to reign loose for some time—or perhaps forever. I suppose they could run well without me. They could use my female counterpart—but that is beyond the point! What I am telling you is _don't _you bloody go there. Be damned if you do! Go straight to the devil instead! At any rate, they are a vicious, rude bunch of brutes and they will tear you apart for even approaching them. It took me ages to find them and I lived wearing this and eating scraps of food that were offered for me or what I could buy from my dwindling supply of money. But you aren't interested with that, are you? However I will continue—"

"Just get on with it!" Lovino replied moodily, his cheeks flushed.

"If you say so," Arthur retorted, taking in a deep breath and collecting his thoughts. As he spoke his eyes grew livelier and his voice strength. "Now, they are an anomaly of this wretched planet, they are not humans and they only vaguely resemble them. Some would suggest that they are the origin of all those tales of devils and demons and all, but they are vaguely related to grim reapers and demons too. However these are cruel and do not believe in equivalent exchange."

A thin line appeared between Kiku's eyebrows.

"They will not pay a price for something they want. They infest human beings, take them over, rid them of their souls, and move on."

"Assuming souls exist, of course…" someone muttered.

Many faces flushed bright red. Chatter sprung up again. Arthur sighed and took another drink of water.

"Of course they exist! Good Heavens!"

"Why even we have souls!"

"Don't you believe at all?"

And so forth, various insults were scattered and offense was taken.

"Quiet!" Ludwig hollered, smacking his palm against the table. During the debate he chose to be silent. "Assume they exist, whatever you believe, but let us not turn this into a debate. Go on, Arthur."

"Thank you, Ludwig," Arthur said, "However they have targeted us because we are the same 'rank' as them. They want us. They want our souls to create something."

And at the most untimely moment just then, someone shrieked.


	19. Venice and Arlene: the Future Unveiled

Venice Lock was nearly seventeen years old. After the encounter with Arthur and the loss of his purity, his father had hidden himself away in his room. At one point Venice grew sick of waiting and tore open the door, flinging it hard as it had been unlocked. Inside was his father sprawled across the floor. His skin was ashen and his nails blue. His eyes stared unseeingly at the ceiling and yet he did not smell of death. Zadig was not there, for he had sucked the soul from Lock and flew off into the night, severing the ties between him and Venice. Unable to comprehend the scene before him, Venice fell to his knees and gently took his father's hand, pressing it to his forehead and weeping freely. Tears rolled down his cheeks, releasing the last of the innocent, naïve heart within him, draining it of its youth. Now, dry of emotion and hard, cold, his heart pulsed without the need for love. Venice, without tears left, stared at the body before rising.

He stood and a fierce hunger for danger consumed him—something to take his mind off of his deceased parent. He took a satchel from his father supplies and filled it with food and other supplies, dressing himself in a great coat and waltzing outside into the dead of night. Darkness poured from the sky, hardly a star was visible. Two days had passed since his father's life's breath was sucked away and the nights seemed only to deepen and thicken, becoming impenetrable. Holding the bag tight, he went down the streets blindly, not knowing where to go.

Muddy cats scoured through the night, their thin legs pawing at the ground and then angling backwards as Venice approached, their narrow mouths splitting open in a hiss, revealing yellowed, broken teeth under yellow eyes. Venice paid them no mind and walked forwards broodingly.

He reached the end of the street and discovered a forest. The dense forestry captured the darkness, not letting it go even in the brightest of days. He brazenly entered it, hearing rustlings and muffled talking. Again he hardly cared for it, keeping his eyes fastened on the ultimate goal—which was a vague, intangible notion he could not name.

At the end of this part of the forest, a ribbon of train tracks was laid out before him. He went over to the clearing and pulled off his bag, approaching the metal bars and smelling their sharp iron tang. In the distance the headlights of the train pierced the night as two miniscule points like stars. Venice stepped onto the tracks and lay down between them. He placed his hands on his head, turning it sideways and making himself as thin as possible. His heart thundered in his chest, seeming ready to burst out of his ribs. He shut his eyes tight. The train hurled forward, rattling the bars and causing them to juggle Venice's small frame around. In a moment the hulk roared overhead, leaving him quite unharmed.

The heavy shadow passed and Venice was again exposed to night air. Frightened half to death, Venice fell unconscious.

When he woke again, he was lying on the grass, his bag on his chest and a tree overhead, casting a shadow down on him. The sun beamed down on the earth, right on the fields of grass and causing them to glimmer like a sea of emeralds. Warmth buffeted past him and he rose to a seated position, looking around. He could not find his savior.

He opened his bag and found some more food had been placed in there. He raised a loaf of bread to his lips and hesitated.

"This could be poisoned," he thought suspiciously, "but then again they went to the trouble of rescuing me. So why would they try to kill me now?" he took a bite. As it were, the load was completely harmless. He ate half of it, just to settle the mumblings of hunger in his stomach. He rose to his feet and continued on.

He walked as if in a dream. The greenery unrolled before him endlessly. Trees swayed in a light breeze and he half expected a fairy or witch to leap out at him and hand him something. Crimson spots danced in his vision and he brought his hand up to his forehead, finding it wet with blood. Bandaging it and taking a sip of water from a bottle he packed, the crimson faded away.

He never found out what had caused it.

After what felt like hours, he discovered an abandoned house. The roof bent inwards. Musty smells rose from it in waves. The front door hung open, cracked in several places. Venice stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Inside the furniture was untouched and unmoved, as though whoever lived there had left in a great hurry. Dust coated them like fuzzy blankets. Spider webs decorated the corners and trailed down to the floors, though any spiders now clustered below them; dead from malnourishment.

A brief investigation proved that the house was built twenty years before and the final letter there was from eighteen years ago. Whatever caused the inhabitants to leave must have been urgent enough to warrant an evacuation of a relatively new house. Venice left and continued his journey.

Several years later, during the Second World War, that house would be obliterated and forgotten.

During his adventure, Venice came across many sites and natural structures that were amazing. He ended up rounded back towards the city, nearing the Phantomhive manor with every step as though drawn there by an invisible string. However, he only met one other person.

It was a young woman who was in the outskirts of her village, picking up flowers and placing them in a basket. She wore a kerchief around her head and a long, thick, brown braid flowed down her back. It was half way through Venice's journey, day 13. He had eaten all the food in his bag and, with the little money in the bottom, entered merchants' carts during the night, set atop it several coins, and took some food.

Now Venice had none and he needed something to eat. Gnawing pains in his stomach grew fitful and impatient. He caught sight of the girl in the distance and crimsoned. He approached her and she looked up, terror straining her pretty green eyes. "Who are you?" she said, pulling the basket to her chest. She appeared to be the same age as Venice.

"Venice," he said quietly, softly. His old character cropped back up within him. But it would soon be extinguished by the lust for danger again. "And you?"

"Arlene." She replied. Her voice was full and proud, but also stifled by her bashfulness. She lowered the basket, sensing that the man before her was hardly a danger.

"Do you have food?" he asked.

"I do."

"May I have some?"

She gave him a long glance and nodded. "Wait here." She rushed away, her braid bouncing against her back. Her green skirts rippled along her legs.

She went into a cabin she shared with a red-headed Scotsman. He grinned at her. "What're you doing here so early, miss?" he said.

"I'm getting food." She responded sourly and went to the cabinets and found some bread, cheese, and other items, setting them in her basket before running off.

The Scotsman, named Quinn and a relative of Arthur, scoffed and returned to his meal, picking at it again.

She approached Venice who stood as ordered and handed him the food. He thanked her and went on his way. She rushed over to him and grabbed his arm. "Hello now, you can't just have a maiden give you food and run off like that, it ain't nice."

"I have nothing to give you." Venice replied softly.

"I know. But now you owe me. So you have to give me something."

"Then…" Venice looked around, the dangerous feelings rising up in his gut. "I'll jump from a roof. I bet you I can do it," he said quickly, not knowing why.

"Do it."

He did. She led him to roof of her house and he clambered up it.

"What are you, anyway?" Venice asked. She didn't seem to be an average commoner girl.

"I'm a maid. I tend to homes. I let people take my kindness so long as they repay it."

"But it isn't really kindness that way." Venice reproached, looking down at the ground. The house wasn't too large. His satchel leaned against the wall below. He jumped and tumbled down, successfully not breaking his legs. However he pulled his arm. A bone broke through his skin and muscle and blood poured out. She clicked her tongue and glowered at him. She went into the house and then brought out bandages, fixing up his arm.

"You still owe me." She said.

"I'll pay you back when I can." Venice replied, feeling even more foolish.

He eventually did pay her back with a decent sum of money written in his will.

Ah, but it seems to have slipped my mind. There was another woman that he met. She was older and more brutish. She discovered Venice crossing her path and took him in, stealing him away. She was dirty and red-headed.

What she did to him is unspeakable and gave him a long scar along his face and neck. He never told a soul about it and wept some nights upon remembering it.

When he came back into the city he found the female cohort of Arthur's. A blonde, short woman who quarreled fiercely with an Italian woman; and that is a story for another time as well that does have connections with Lovino's tragedy. Again, for another time.

Venice stood before the Phantomhive manor and raised his knuckles, rapping against the door curtly. No one replied. Later that day it burned to the ground and rose anew; like the almighty phoenix.

Sometime later Arthur would stumble into the meeting. But what Venice made of himself was a very interesting story that will not be told later but will have connections. He went on to become a great many things: from a clergyman to a merchant. Somehow he found himself making money off of a trade and climbing through the classes. He grew to see both wars and died shortly after the second as a wealthy, educated old man with two daughters, both given to him by Arlene of the forests. As said before he left her a sum of money that she later used to help Arthur, also written in his will. Interestingly enough she never lived to meet Arthur face to face, but she spoke once to Francis on the matter of art and French.

But while Venice was alive and just becoming a well-to-do merchant, having recently married Arlene, they intervened with Lovino's path as well as the ominous force attacking Arthur and his fellow comrades. The two became some of the few humans who knew about the nation's identities and kept it hidden well. It was also the reason Venice gained such wealth.

Arlene had actually tried for a child at least five times. The first time they had their daughter, the second they had a son who died ten years later. The next two were a miscarriage and a still-born and the final was the other daughter with a seven year difference between her and her sister. The two went on to become successful and wealthy, but they never learned of the nation's identity.

The scar along Venice's face became host to a good deal of folklore, as he eventually admitted that a woman of the forest caused it, but how remained a secret.

But the woman will become very important soon enough.

And so to step out of the future the past will have to be described, particularly Arthur's tremendous feat in gaining information.


End file.
